The Alex Shanahan Series

by Lynne Heitman

  He stepped back and regarded me with a bashful grin. The nicer he was to me, the worse I felt for lying. If George Speath was a bogus parts dealer, he had to be the kindest, most gentlemanly one ever. “It suits you,” he said. “Come outside. I want to show you something.”

  I was glad for the hat as I followed him out onto the ramp. It kept the direct sunlight off my face, although it didn’t help much with the sneaky rays that bounced off the concrete and ricocheted back up. But I forgot all about them when I got a glimpse of what he was so excited about.

  It was an old twin-engine prop, with a polished aluminum skin that looked as fresh as if it had rolled out of the factory that morning. It had no logo or other markings, only an elegant maroon stripe that followed the classic lines of the fuselage, down both sides, and all the way to the tail. Powerful propellers fronted the engines, one each on elegant wings spread beneath the sun.

  “Pretty impressive, isn’t it?” George couldn’t have been more excited if he had just given me my first glimpse of the Grand Canyon. And to be honest, for me it was almost as dazzling a sight.

  “It sure is. Is it an Electra?”

  He turned and looked at me with a new appreciation. “You know your airplanes. It’s a Lockheed L. 12 Electra. They used one just like it in Casablanca. Or so the legend goes. I think they just used a cardboard version.”

  I made a complete circle, walking around the aircraft and taking in the grand sight. The aircraft sat on the tarmac with all the poise and presence of a movie star from the 1930s. Sleek and glamorous, it was definitely out of its time and place, but there was nothing about it that was faded. “This is… this is great, George. What are you doing with it?”

  “I’m restoring it for an aviation museum out in Kansas City. I’d take you into the cabin, but it’s a little dicey in there. We haven’t even started the interior.”

  “What does it seat?”

  “Six passengers and two crew. The engines are Pratt & Whitney 985 Wasps. She was built in 1936, and do you know there are some still being used today? This one will fly when I’m through with it. I’m going to take her up myself.”

  “You’re a pilot?”

  “I’ve got my own plane,” he said. “But it doesn’t come close to this baby.” He walked over and put his hand flat against the throat of the aircraft and held it there as if he were calming a wild horse. “Can you picture one of these Electras,” he said, “propellers spinning, flying around the world in a trip that might take weeks and make a dozen stops? Those were the days, huh? They must have been, anyway.” He gazed up at the airplane, squinting into the bright sun, and his smile was bittersweet. “Sometimes,” he said, “I think I was born in the wrong time.”

  “How did it go?” Jack was at the other end of the line. I was in my car. We were cell phone to cell phone.

  “George Speath is a very nice man,” I said. “He gave me a nifty hat.” I checked it out again in the rearview mirror. It really was a nice hat.

  “Are you telling me,” Jack said, “you’ve already been compromised as an undercover operative?”

  “As far as I can tell, George Speath runs a good shop. His documentation is all in order. His inventory and his stockroom are well organized and properly secured. He deals with the same vendors over and over, only the ones he knows. His receiving procedures are layers thick with checks and double checks to make sure the part he’s getting is the one he ordered. I talked to his FAA inspector, who loves him. Every employee I talked to loves him. His customers love him. Either he’s too nice to be a crook, or he’s too crafty for me to catch him.”

  “And he was at the murder scene and he’s being looked at by the Bureau. There has to be something there.”

  “I wish we could find Agent Hollander and ask him what it is.”

  I searched the side of LeJeune Road for the Miami Sub Shop I’d designated for dinner.

  “I’ve left several more messages for him,” he said. “Patty has tried to reach him for me.”

  “Why don’t we just go over to the FBI offices?”

  “I told you he’s not working out of the offices. He’s set up off-site somewhere. If he doesn’t want to be found, we’re not going to find him. I know that better than anyone.”

  “You do? Did you used to hide when you were an agent?”

  “I’m trying to tell you we shouldn’t count on getting anything from Hollander, and I don’t think we should give up on George. He’s the best lead we’ve got so far.”

  “I’m not giving up. I’m on my way over to see Felix now.” I found the sub shop. It was, of course, on the other side of the street and nowhere near a left turn lane. I was going to have to go down, turn around, and come back, which made me reevaluate whether it was worth it. There was always sushi at the hotel. Or the California Pizza Kitchen in the food court on Concourse F. I decided to skip it and went on to The Harmony House Suites, which was starting to feel like my home away from home away from home.

  “Felix,” he said. “Is that the hotel kid?”

  “He’s a hacker who happens to work at the hotel. I think he can help me with a little research I want to do. Where are you? Do you want to meet me here?”

  “I’ve been out looking for Ira. He’s gone AWOL. No one’s seen him.”

  “That sounds bad.” I pulled into a space and turned off the engine, which made it much easier to make out what he was saying.

  “Maybe not. Ira can make himself scarce when he wants to. It could be he just doesn’t want to talk to me.”

  “Are you going to keep looking?”

  “No, I’m beat. I’m going home.”

  I felt a sinking disappointment that I was going to spend a whole day without seeing Jack. “Don’t forget our appointment tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll come by and pick you up.”

  “What’s tomorrow?”

  “We have a ten o’clock appointment at The Cray Fund offices downtown.”

  “The financial people.”

  “Right. Their car was in the lot that night as well.”

  “Waste of time,” he said. “Waste of time.”

  “You’re the one who said we should keep all the possibilities open.”

  Chapter Twenty

  ​It was dinnertime at The Harmony House Suites and the lobby was crowded with conference goers turned loose from their white tablecloths, cold Danish, and flip charts. Felix was easy to spot and not just because of his bleach-tipped hair. It was the way he moved, shambling through the crowd all floppy and loose-limbed like a young bird dog.

  I fell in step behind him. “Felix Melendez Jr.”

  He spun around, ready to be of service to whoever needed him. “Yes, can I help—Miss Shanahan.” He took a step back and broke into that loopy grin. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you. Are you on your way somewhere?”

  “It can wait.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and kept grinning, his head bobbing like a cork in mild seas.

  “Felix, could we go somewhere where we can talk?”

  “Oh. Oh, sure. Sorry.” A hint of subversive curiosity stole into his eyes. “Somewhere private?”

  “That would be good.”

  “There’s someone using my office right now.” He stood on his toes, craned his long neck, and searched every corner of the lobby. “Um, how about the health club? I can see it from here and it’s empty.”

  “Lead the way.”

  The health club at The Harmony House Suites was like most hotel health clubs—a sorry collection of mismatched workout equipment picked out of catalogues by people who’ve never seen a sweat towel. The centerpiece was the obligatory Universal gym, the kind with myriad hooks and ropes and attachments that combined to give you four hundred different exercises. There was one old treadmill with a fraying belt, a couple of dumbbells in the corner, a slant bench, and two stair climbers.

  Felix went straight to the thermostat—someone had left the air conditioner on full blast—mumbling about co
nservation and the destruction of the environment. I found the remote for the TV and muted the soap opera rerun. We came together at the Universal gym, where he draped his arms over a dangling straight bar.

  “Would you like to do some work for me, Felix?”

  His eyes widened and it’s possible his spiky hair actually stood up a little straighter on his head. “Are you serious?”

  “I can pay you a little, not much—”

  “Wow!” He let go of the bar, causing it to swing perilously toward my head as he darted around. “I’d do it for free. Wait!” He stopped and patted himself down, searching his shirt pocket, suit jacket, and pants pockets, front and back. “I don’t have anything to write with. We should go—”

  I pulled out my pad, jotted down what he needed, ripped out the page, and handed it to him.

  He read what I had written. “Speath Aviation.” He nodded. “The dude whose car was in the lot the night Mr. McTavish was killed.” I could feel Felix’s enthusiasm rising as his voice dropped inversely. “Is he a suspect in the murder of your friend?”

  “Don’t know yet. I want to take a close look at his business from the inside out. You’ve also got the password there, which George says should provide full access to all of his systems.”

  “Cool. What are we looking for?”

  “We think it’s possible he’s been laundering bogus parts through his business.”

  “Way cool.” He stuck his thumbnail between his teeth, and I could see the wheels spinning. Fast. “Okay, okay.” He started moving around the room, taking large steps in the small space, changing course every time he was about to smack into something. He rubbed his forehead. He took long, deep breaths. He talked to himself. “Parts, parts, parts.”

  Then he stopped. “What’s a bogus part?”

  I explained to Felix about how there were people in the world who made a living making, stealing, and selling used, damaged, counterfeit, and otherwise substandard parts to people and businesses—including commercial airlines—that unwittingly purchased them and installed them on their aircraft. He listened in rapt attention until I was finished, at which point he blinked and said, “That is harsh.”

  “Way harsh,” I said. “I thought you could do that thing you do with your computer and see what you can come up with.”

  “That means inventory,” he said. “And vendors. You’re probably looking for who they buy from, who they sell to, background checks on the employees. I can roll through their inventories and figure out what they’ve purchased and sold in the past few months. Maybe get you copies of corporate ledgers, check registers, purchase orders, invoices, lists of accounts payable and accounts receivable, customer files. Is this a public company? No, private. I saw that when I looked him up. Okay, but someone does their books. I can find out who and possibly get in that way.” He looked at me, face open and eager as if to ask, how am I doing?

  Pretty darn well if you compared his list of specific ideas to my sketchy list of questions. Of course, I was limited by the fact that I didn’t think like a hacker.

  “Cut the data however you think it makes sense and see what you can come up with.”

  I looked up to see a man in track shorts, ratty shirt, and running shoes walking through the lobby and coming our way, clearly intending to work out. I remembered that John had worked out in this room. I looked around again at the equipment and wondered when I’d stopped thinking about him as a person, as a friend, and had started thinking about him as everyone else in Florida did—as McTavish, murder victim and case number. The thought of him, the feeling of his strong presence left in the room like sweat on the machines, caught me by surprise and pulled me into a sad place. I decided I needed to call Mae. I hadn’t been talking enough to Mae.

  “Miss Shanahan?” Felix was looking at me as if he had noticed something, but was too shy to comment. Or wouldn’t know what to say. How old was this kid, anyway? Twenty? Twenty-two? I almost didn’t want to know, didn’t want to think how tender was the age at which I was introducing him to one of the more corrupt and sordid elements of a business he was trying to be excited about, and I was still trying to love.

  “You still have my card with my phone number, don’t you, Felix?”

  “I scanned it in.” Of course he had.

  “Look specifically for any indication that Speath ever did work for Air Sentinel,” I said. “He claims no, but I still want to check.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s a possibility, and I have nothing to prove this, that his shop could have installed a bad part or in some other way caused a plane crash.”

  “Oh.” He thought about that, and seemed to come to terms with it rather quickly. “Okay. When do you need this stuff?”

  “The sooner the better, but don’t ignore your job.”

  That cracked him up. “My job mostly ignores me.”

  I started for the door. “Miss Shanahan?” He was standing still, feet together which seemed weird. “This is really cool. Thanks for asking me.”

  That may have been the first time I’d ever been thanked for asking someone to do me a favor.

  The California Pizza Kitchen was sounding like a much better choice for dinner than sushi when I arrived back at the airport. On the other hand, I hadn’t been running lately because of my ankle. Sushi would be less satisfying, but also less of a carbo load.

  At some point, as I was resolving the dinner dilemma, I became aware that he was back there. Behind me. Moving as I moved. I stopped once abruptly to browse in the window of a bookstore. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught him trying to match my movements, but his reaction was a beat behind, enough that I could see him do it. He was definitely following me. Damn.

  He wore a cap pulled low enough over his eyes that his face was impossible to see, which meant I couldn’t see when he was looking at me. He might have had a beard. He wore a black mesh T-shirt with the sleeves ripped out over jeans that bagged around his lightskinned, pointy-toed cowboy boots. A big, angry looking tattoo covered one upper arm. I was too far away to see what it was.

  I stood at the window of the bookstore with one eye on him, trying to figure out what to do. Drift over to the Flamingo Garage and the airport police station. That’s what made the most sense, but it was a long way away. A good ten-minute walk. He’d follow me until he figured out where I was going, peel off, and come back to haunt me another day. Frankly, I was tired of being followed around.

  The airport was busy, and I kept getting buffeted and brushed aside by great moving tourist flows, clumps of people wearing loose, sunny smiles and big name tags. First it hit me that it was cruise ship day and I was in Miami, which meant the big air-to-water transfer and vice versa were underway. Then it hit me that I was in one of the greatest places in the world to get lost—a crowded airport—and I came up with a better idea.

  I glanced over at my pursuer, who didn’t seem to have moved a muscle the whole time he’d been standing there. Then I picked out a particularly animated tourist clump, steadied myself, and dove in. I had to really clamp down on the adrenaline to match their pace, which felt excruciatingly slow. I had to if I wanted to stay nestled in their midst. I went a short way with them before I saw another group coming from the opposite direction, and moving more swiftly. I wanted to go the way they were going and needed to shift over, but couldn’t find Mr. Mesh Man. They were approaching fast when I picked him out. His back was to me. I waited as he turned, turned in my direction… waited… waited… there. He saw me. Go… now.

  I crossed over, began flowing in the reverse current, hopefully pulling him behind me, and, if I’d done it right, without his knowing.

  Always keeping him in sight, and letting him keep me in sight, I made a couple more shifty moves. He wasn’t very big, and had to stop frequently to stand on his toes and scan. Every time he didn’t spot me, he grew more agitated. I could see it in the set of his shoulders and the way his head swiveled. At one point he turned completely around and I wasn’t
sure he’d pick me up again. It was so crowded it was actually hard to keep him in sight.

  By the time I landed in the snaky check-in queue for LOT Polish Airlines, my heart was hammering, but I was weirdly exhilarated by this game of cat and mouse. Perhaps it would have been better to be the cat… but still, I was exactly where I wanted to be—around the corner from the security checkpoint.

  I did a radar sweep for Mesh Man and found him—staring straight at me. And approaching. Fast. I pushed through the line, past a skycap and his overloaded rolling cart. I went around a herd of flight attendants with rolling bags. I was moving fast, but when I looked back, Mesh Man was closing. When I looked ahead, I saw what I didn’t want to see. A line at the security checkpoint.

  If I hadn’t been carrying my backpack, I could have gone directly to the front of the line and sailed through the metal detector. If Mesh Man was armed, there was no way he was coming through behind me, and if he wasn’t and followed me in, I’d simply turn around and ask him to state his business, right in front of all these people. But I had to get through, and fast. My Majestic ID had always been good for cutting the line. I wished I still had it. What I did have was the temporary one Bic had provided. I was almost running now and my hands were shaking. When I slung the pack forward, I almost dropped it. I had to try two zippered pockets before I found it. I was already standing at the front of the line, having cut in front of at least twelve people, when I finally extracted it. I flashed my ID. They made me throw my bag on the belt for x-ray, but let me pass through the metal detector. As I stood waiting for my backpack to come through, I tried to spot Mr. Mesh Man. Couldn’t. I was tingling all over and breathing hard. My ankle was sore and my legs were stiff when I finally saw him… the back of him, hauling ass away from the checkpoint. I stood there for a long time, cooling off and calming down, watching people come through, and wondering if he had just given up, or if I had been playing cat and mouse with an armed man. I didn’t feel quite so exhilarated any more.