The Alex Shanahan Series

by Lynne Heitman

  “They did. And don’t even ask me why. Ask Agent Damon Hollander. Maybe he’ll tell you more than he told me, since all you Feebs come from the same DNA.”

  Jack shrugged. “Am I supposed to know him? I’ve never heard of him.”

  “He’s too young for you, baby. He brought his tight little ass over to my office and snatched Mr. John McTavish right out from under me. Didn’t say this. Didn’t say that. Didn’t say boo.”

  “You let him do that? That doesn’t sound like you, Patty.”

  “It’s not like I don’t have enough murders to fill up my idle hours. Besides that, the boss came in and told me in his quiet voice, which he only uses when he’s serious, to let it drop. So I did. I let it go.”

  I looked at Jack. “Maybe that’s who John called at the FBI.”

  “It would be a good place to start. When did he swipe your case, Patty?”

  “Two days ago.” She turned to me. “I’m surprised you didn’t see steam shooting out of my ears when you came to see me because I was still hot about it.”

  “I thought you just didn’t want to talk to me.”

  “But—” She sat back, straightened her shoulders, and let an exaggerated aura of calm and serenity come over her. “I’ve let it go now.”

  The waitress brought our breakfast. Pat pushed her pancakes toward Jack, ordered a side of toast, asked for extra cheese for her eggs, and proceeded to crumble the bacon strips into the scramble. This was a woman who liked to eat. My egg white omelet with fruit and dry English muffin seemed anemic by comparison. I picked at it while I turned the pages back and reviewed my notes from our first meeting.

  “Pat, you said you thought John’s murder was a drug killing.”

  She nodded, but waited until after she’d swallowed to respond. “The MO, sugar. The whole thing with the knife, the serrated blade, the through and through in the throat, lots of blood—that’s Ottavio’s signature.”

  “Ottavio?” Jack knew enough to be surprised.

  “Who is this person?” I asked him.

  “Ottavio Quevedo. The DEA boys call him Ottavio. Or just O.”

  “Spell it.”

  “Octavio, only with a double t and no c.” I wrote it in my book. “Colombian drug lord. One of the more vicious strains of the disease.”

  “He’s been a busy boy, too.” The waitress had brought Pat’s extra cheese and she was busy sprinkling it on her eggs. “He’s duking it out with a bunch of Mexicans who have been trying to move in on his East Coast market. Stiffs have been piling up in Dumpsters all over town, all linked in some way to O and his gang.”

  “I didn’t even know there were Mexicans in the market,” I said.

  “Oh, sugar, two of the most powerful drug cartels in the world today are run out of Juarez and Tijuana. The Colombians are just not what they used to be. Medellín and Cali are shadows of their former selves.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong on this, Patty, but the guerrilla armies run the drug trade in Columbia now—”

  “They do.”

  “And Ottavio is lined up with them.”

  “That’s right. He’s got a whole damn drug army behind him, and they’ve got more firepower, more sophisticated equipment, and all around better toys than the official military.” Pat had finished her eggs and was trying to get the top off a tiny container of grape jelly. It was a struggle. Her fingernails were too short. “So that’s one big vote for a drug killing. The MO. And then there’s the story Mr. Bob Avidor gave us.”

  “He’s lying. He’s lying about everything.” I hadn’t meant to be quite so curt, but I was annoyed by this drug accusation, by the persistence of an accusation I knew in the deepest part of my heart to be false. “I can’t explain the MO, but I can tell you that John McTavish’s life couldn’t have been any further away from some international drug lord smackdown.”

  Pat had managed to peel back the foil top and was digging out the deep purple spread with a knife. “I didn’t say I believed him. We haven’t found anything linking the vic—John McTavish or his brother to drug activity. At least we hadn’t by the time I had to give up the case. But Avidor is not your man. His alibi is good.”

  Jack had eaten half the pancakes before putting his utensils down and concentrating on his coffee. “What’s the alibi, Patty?”

  “He was over at the Broken Arrow playing pool until almost two a.m. with his boss, Phil Ryczbicki. The bartender identified them both. Called them Mutt and Mutt. He remembered them because Avidor asked him to find him a hooker.”

  I didn’t even look up, just wrote down Avidor. Hooker. After two a.m. The more I learned about Bobby Avidor, the less I understood John’s loyalty to him, notwithstanding the rescue of his brother.

  Jack took it in stride. “Did he find him a hooker?”

  “Officially, no. Off the record, he gave me her name.”

  “So,” Jack said, “Avidor stayed with Ryczbicki until the boss went home, then bought himself an alibi.”

  “Correct. Avidor was seen by quite a few people after he left the bar getting a blow job in his car in the parking lot. Then he took the young lady home. She was with him the rest of the night.”

  I amended my notes. Avidor. Hooker. Blow job.

  “He couldn’t have been much more conspicuous,” Jack said. “Did you show McTavish’s picture around the bar? He left his hotel room to meet someone between ten on Monday night and one the next morning. That’s one place he could have gone.”

  Pat gave him an exasperated glance. “Baby, with you gone from law enforcement, I don’t know how we manage to stay out of our own way.”

  “I’m just asking—”

  “I may not be the FBI, but I did manage to establish that neither one of those boys saw McTavish that night, and neither one killed him. Avidor was doing his thing and Ryczbicki went back to the airport and slept on the couch in his office. He was seen by several members of his staff.”

  I stared down at Ottavio’s name in my notebook as if it were a code or anagram that might rearrange itself and give me some answers. It didn’t, but it gave me a question.

  “Here’s a thought. It makes no sense to me that John was moving into drugs, but does it make sense that Ottavio could be moving into parts?”

  “Parts?” Pat looked across the table at Jack and seemed gently amused. “Are you still chasing aircraft parts?”

  “Old habits die hard. We heard there’s been some crossover between the drug and bogus parts industries.”

  “Where did you get that?”

  “I tapped Ira Leemer on the back of the head and that’s what rolled out.”

  “Good lordy, I hope that’s all that rolled out.” She looked at me with eyes wide. “You might want to consider getting a tetanus shot.”

  “Patty, let me float a theory here and see what you think. Air Sentinel 634.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a triple seven that crashed down in Ecuador not long ago. We have reason to believe the crash might have been caused by a bad part or bad maintenance. If that’s true, the Bureau would be all over it.”

  “So?”

  “If Avidor had something to do with the crash and McTavish found out about it and was murdered for it, it makes his death crash related, which could explain why Hollander showed up to take your case.”

  “I just told you Avidor was otherwise occupied.”

  “He could have set him up. I saw him out at Jimmy Zacharias’s place the other night. Jimmy might not have an alibi, and he’s perfectly capable of jamming a blade through a man’s throat.”

  Pat crossed her arms over her chest. It made her seem broader and more formidable. “What were you doing out there?”

  “It’s another case I’m working on. Avidor walked into it.”

  Pat stared at Jack with what looked like concern. “You need to stay away from Jimmy Zacharias, sweetie.”

  “He’s the target of my investigation.”

  With her arms still crossed she
looked like a fortress. “Because he’s a legitimate suspect, or because you can’t stand his skinny ass?”

  “I hate his skinny ass, and he’s a legitimate suspect.” There was a moment where something was supposed to be said and wasn’t, and all that was left was a silence that felt particularly awkward between two people who obviously liked each other. Jack was inscrutable. Pat was giving away nothing in her expression, but she seemed to want to say something. It was no doubt something I would have loved to hear, because there was clearly a history between Jack and Jimmy Zacharias, one that was beginning to feel more and more significant to what we were doing. I wanted to know what it was. But I wasn’t going to hear it from Pat Spain.

  “Your theory about the plane crash is nice, baby, except for one thing. Damon Hollander is a drug man. Came down from New York not too long ago. Brought with him some high-level sources in the drug trade from what I hear. And he’s working on a case right now that’s got everyone’s attention.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s not a what, baby. It’s a who.”

  “All right. Who?”

  “Ottavio Quevedo. That’s why he took my case. Not because of parts or some crash.” She looked at me. “I wouldn’t have told you this was a drug murder unless I thought it was. Personally, I think it’s Avidor that’s involved and your friend ended up being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m sorry, baby.”

  The three of us sat quietly. I closed my notebook. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Jack broke the silence. “Patty, do me a favor and ask around a little. See if you can come up with anything about this crash or what Jimmy’s up to these days.”

  “Ask around yourself. You’ve got a cell phone just like I do.”

  “The difference being you are still on the inside, and I am now on the outside.”

  “A distinction you’d best keep in mind, lover. I’ve been told in the quiet voice to stay away from this case. Why should I risk my job for you?”

  “Because I bought you breakfast.”

  “These eggs weren’t that good. And you ate my pancakes.”

  “Then do it because I never once treated you like Damon Hollander did.”

  “Let’s take a walk,” I said when we were out on the concourse. “I have some questions about what she said. Let’s go check out Bic’s operation.”

  We headed over to the Majestic concourse and cleared security. We found a spot near one of the gates where we could stand by the window and talk privately.

  “I like your friend Pat,” I said. “How did you get to know her?”

  “We worked together on a task force once. She’s good and she doesn’t get the respect she deserves.”

  “She likes you.”

  “She’s been a good friend.”

  “She seems worried about you.”

  He turned toward the window and ended up gazing into bright sunshine. Instead of turning back, he slipped on his sunglasses. “It’s so clear today,” he said. “You’d never know half the state was on fire.”

  “Jack, what is it between you and Jimmy Zacharias? And don’t tell me he’s just another scumbag.”

  He didn’t even seem to have heard the question, but I decided to wait him out. “There are people in this world,” he said finally, “who have no conscience, and he’s one. He can do anything; he can do the worst things, and still get up in the morning and look himself in the mirror. That bothers me.”

  “I would venture to say that during your long career in law enforcement, you ran into more than one unrepentant criminal. What is it about this man?”

  He left another long pause in the conversation. I figured he was trying to decide how much to tell me, and I was busy reacting to the idea that he would exclude me at all. I didn’t want to be excluded. I liked him too much.

  “What do you see,” he asked, “when you look out there?”

  “You mean on the ramp?”

  “Yeah.”

  From where we stood we could see four, maybe five gates clearly, and there was an airplane being worked on each one. I scanned as I used to do in Boston, looking for any big problems. Saw none. I picked out one crew and watched as they loaded bags, boxes, parcels, and kennels from the cart to the belt loader to the belly.

  “It’s a tidy operation. The guidelines are all freshly painted. Everyone’s in uniform, but that’s easy. All they wear down here are short-sleeved shirts and pressed cotton shorts. It’s hard to screw that up.” I watched the crew working the flight. “They treat the oversized items with appropriate respect. Looks as if they have lots of golf clubs and surfboards down here. In Boston we had skis. Tractors, tugs, and carts are all painted, and parked where they should be. I don’t see any rust or broken windshields. No debris lying around that could get sucked into engines. Everyone’s wearing their ear protectors and their safety vests, and things seem to be moving smoothly. Bic runs a good operation. I have to give him that.”

  “You see things I would never see.”

  “That’s my training. I’ve looked at a lot of ramps.”

  “And I’ve worked a lot of cases over a lot of years.” He took his glasses off and turned to face me and I realized where he was going. He’d been a few steps ahead of me. “What’s between Jimmy and me has nothing to do with you. It has nothing to do with this case.” His voice caught. He cleared his throat and looked down at the glasses in his hand. “I’m asking you to trust me on that.”

  With his back to the sun, I had to squint to see what I wanted to see. “When you talk about Jimmy, Jack, your face changes. Your whole body reacts to the mention of his name. Something that powerful has to affect what you do and how you think, so I don’t believe you when you say it won’t affect this case.” His forehead bunched and his chest rose and I could see the defensive response forming around his eyes, so I hurried to finish the thought. “But I trust you, Jack.”

  He shifted his weight to his other foot and looked harder at me. He seemed to be searching for signs of trickery. There were none. I wanted to know what was going on. I wanted to stand there and wheedle, coerce, or otherwise try to pry the story out of him, but it wouldn’t have worked. He was a locked safe on this subject and I didn’t have the combination. Not yet.

  “Good,” he said. “Let’s go see Mr. Avidor.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  We found Bobby Avidor at the maintenance hangar. He stood with one balled fist on his soft hip as he stared up at the stabilizer of an MD-11, where two mechanics were working on a lift. When he saw us coming, he ignored me and spoke to Jack.

  “Who are you?”

  “Jack Dolan. I need to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “John McTavish.”

  “Are you a cop?”

  “Private.” Jack had left his sunglasses on. He looked very cool when he said that.

  Bobby looked at me. “Ryczbicki put me on the day shift.”

  “So I heard.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “Only that it was easier for us to find you on days. And he should keep an eye on you.”

  He didn’t bother to conceal his contempt as he used his collar mike to radio the mechanics on the lift. He told them to let him know as soon as they’d found the problem.

  We followed him into the hangar and up an exposed set of iron stairs to the admin areas on a second-floor landing. His office seemed like a palace compared to places I’d seen and worked in up on the line, but then hangar space wasn’t quite as dear as airport terminal space.

  His desk was tan metal with a laminated top. On top was a carved wooden slat that read R. A. AVIDOR that could have come from a souvenir shop at Niagara Falls. A couple of guest chairs faced the desk. The only other major piece of furniture was a bookcase crammed with all sorts of binders and manuals. Proudly displayed on his cork bulletin board, among other things, was a postcard photo of three exotic women posed elbow to elbow on a sunny, sandy beach. The caption below their bare breasts
read: “Wet and Wild in Hawaii.”

  Avidor unclipped the radio from his belt, took off the collar mike, and rested his thick hips against the arm of one of his guest chairs. “What can I do for you?”

  “You can’t do anything for me except listen to what I have to say to you.” Jack still had the shades on. “You claim that John McTavish was here to bust up his brother’s drug deal, but you made that story up to cover your own ass.”

  Avidor’s laugh was like the nervous twitter of a teenager. He crossed his arms, which made his stomach pooch out even more over his chronically too-tight belt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re in the business of dirty parts. We know that. And you’re in business with Jimmy Zacharias. We know that, too.”

  “I don’t know any Jim—”

  “I saw you with him, so shut the fuck up and listen.”

  Bobby fell silent.

  “You know something about the crash of Air Sentinel 634. Maybe you even caused it. We know this because John McTavish had in his possession the logbook from that airplane, and a piece of jewelry that belonged to one of the victims.”

  “Where would Johnny get something like that?”

  Jack sighed. Bobby didn’t seem to be much of a challenge for him. “From you.”

  Bobby’s normally active eyes looked like pinballs. “That’s crap.”

  “You’re the only connection that makes any sense,” I said. “John found out what you did and came down to confront you. He probably threatened to turn you in.”

  Jack took a step closer to Bobby. “In my old line of work, we called that a motive.”

  “A motive for what?”

  “For murder.”

  Bobby jerked up, walked around to his own side of the desk, and stood with his hands in his pockets. His big, high forehead was starting to flush. “I have an alibi.”

  “All that means is you weren’t on the scene when it happened, but you did set him up. You called someone—my money’s on Jimmy—and reported the situation. Then you got yourself an alibi, a good one, and proceeded to make up this ridiculous drug story. That’s something I’ve always hated. Tarnishing the good name of a victim, a solid citizen who can’t defend himself, just to save your own ass.”