So normally Ray wouldn’t have been unhappy to see the police officer walk into the airport terminal two days after the plane crash by the bridge. But Justin thought he spotted something in Ray’s eyes. Something that said he wasn’t thrilled with the visit. The look disappeared quickly, though, then Ray gave him a happy wave of his hand and said, “What can I do for you, Officer Westwood?” Normally, Justin would have said what he always said: “Call me Justin.” But today he let the appellation stand. He had a feeling today it was better to keep things formal.
“I’m here about the crash,” Justin told him.
The look on Ray’s face definitely turned to unhappy.
“Your mechanic finish his inspection of the plane?” Justin decided he could now officially describe Ray as looking pained.
Ray Lockhardt nodded. Then he shook his head. “Yeah, it’s finished. But I did it myself. The inspection.”
“That normal? I thought you were more the executive type now.”
Ray didn’t crack a smile. He just looked even more pained, then said, “You know, the FAA can cause a lot of trouble for me. Fines. Heavy fines. They could even shut me down.”
“You doing something wrong?” Justin asked.
“No. Not a thing! Everything here goes strictly by the book.”
“So what’s the problem?”
Ray didn’t answer.
“Ray, is there some problem I don’t know about? Remember, I’m pretty good at solving your problems.”
Ray hesitated again. Then he picked up a copy of the Daily News that was sitting on the counter in front of him. He turned to page sixteen, showed Justin a small story at the bottom right of the page. The headline said: PILOT ERROR CAUSE OF LONG ISLAND CRASH. The story went on to say that an FBI spokesperson revealed that the FAA had determined there was no connection between the small plane crash and the bombing at Harper’s. The spokesperson was quoted as saying that this was just a terrible coincidence. The pilot’s name was still not released, because his family had not yet been reached.
“This based on your report?” Justin asked. “You talk to this reporter before you talked to me?”
Now Ray licked his lips, which looked dry and cracked. “I haven’t talked to any reporters. And I haven’t given anyone my report yet.”
“Not even the FAA?”
“Hell, no.”
“Then how can they already have made this kind of determination?”
“Don’t know. But I was told that they had.”
“Who told you? Martin Heffernan? The guy who was here the other day?”
“Right. The GAS agent.”
“GAS?”
“General Aviation Safety.”
“What is it with you guys and your acronyms? He called himself something different. FSOD?”
“FSDO.” He too pronounced it “fizzdough.” “Flight Standards District Office. The GAS guys work out of FSDO.”
“Well, with all those acronyms behind them, I guess your report’s gonna say the same thing as theirs, right?”
Ray Lockhardt didn’t answer.
“Ray? Is your report going to agree with Heffernan?”
Lockhardt lowered his voice, even though no one else was in the building. “He didn’t just tell me what their finding was.”
Justin spoke casually. “No? What else did he tell you?”
“He said I shouldn’t tell you anything. Said I shouldn’t tell nobody anything. But especially you.”
Justin nodded, as if the news didn’t surprise him. Which, in some ways, it didn’t. He hadn’t exactly made a pal of Martin Heffernan. “Well, I don’t want you to get in trouble with the FAA, Ray. You don’t have to tell me a thing.”
“FAA, hell.” He tapped the newspaper on the counter. “You read this story? You think I want to mess around with the goddamn FBI?”
“No. I don’t think you do. And I don’t think you should.”
It was an exit line, but Justin didn’t leave. He waited. He waited until he could see Ray struggle to figure out what he was going to say next. And what he said was, “That guy’s a little weasel!” He practically spit the words out.
“Heffernan, you mean?”
“Yeah,” Ray said. “Heffernan. Normally these guys check us out once a year, maybe twice. He’s been here a lot lately, over the past couple of weeks. Hassling us. Even made some late-night checks. I knew something was up. I mean, what the hell’s he hassling me for? So fuck him. He can’t stop me from telling you the truth.”
“You sure?” Justin said. “I mean it. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
Ray Lockhardt laughed. “You’re good,” he said. “The more you tell me to shut up, the more I want to spill my guts. You must be hell in the interrogation room. I’d like to see that sometime.”
Justin did his best to laugh back. “We don’t have an interrogation room,” he said. “There’s nothing to see.”
And now Ray wasn’t laughing or smiling. His lips were together and his eyes were grim. “Well how ’bout if I show you something, then?” he said. “How ’bout I show you something pretty fucking amazing?”
They were back in one of three hangars on the airport property. In the middle of the enormous space was the wreck of the crashed airplane. Ray led Justin toward the wreckage. He hopped up onto one of the damaged wings, indicated that Justin should follow. Then he ducked down and slipped inside the plane. Justin stepped forward and peered in.
“You know anything about planes?” Ray asked.
“Now’s probably a good time to mention this. I’m not the most mechanical guy in the world.”
“All right, I can keep it simple.” And as he spoke, he began pointing, indicating various knobs and tubes and gadgets, some still whole, some twisted and gnarled from the impact. “This is a Piper Saratoga. A single-engine piston airplane.”
“I’m with you so far.”
“There are two weird things about this particular plane. First is, look here in the back. Should be a four-seater but the two backseats are ripped out. Somebody ripped ’em out so they could put this thing in.” He tapped a large, heavy-looking tank that took up much of the back half of the plane.
“And what is that?”
“A long-range gas tank.”
“Okay, now you’ve got to explain.”
“These planes aren’t meant to fly long distances. It’s not what they’re made for. They’re easy to fly, they’re not complicated. It’s why a lot of them get stolen. And when they’re stolen, the guys who steal ’em sometimes put in these long-range tanks.”
“Why?”
“Look, I only know this because I hear the pilots talk. This is pretty common knowledge. .”
“Ray, I’m not interested in where you get your info. I just want to know what it is.”
“These are drug planes. A lot of ’em get stolen in Florida. They steal ’em from weekend fliers, they get the new tanks, they’re good for long trips to South America and back.”
Justin tried to digest this information but it didn’t add up to much. It had no context for him other than it opened up one vague possibility: the crash was connected to some kind of drug smuggling scheme. So he just filed it away in the back of his head. “You said there were two things that were strange about the plane. What’s the second?”
“Can you take a little lesson in heating systems?”
“Hey, you can dish it out, I can take it.”
“These kinds of planes, the cabins are heated by heat from the exhaust manifold pipe. It goes through the exhaust manifold.” Ray now touched something that Justin assumed was the manifold. “They put this shroud around it and ram air blows it in. The heaters don’t work too well except in flight because it takes air to push the heat through and more air comes in while you’re flying. Here, you see, you regulate it by opening and closing the valve.” He demonstrated. “There’s no thermostat.”
“So what, there was no heat and the guy froze to death or something?”
Ray shook his head. “The danger with this kind of setup is if there’s a leak in the exhaust system. When that happens, it lets in carbon monoxide.”
“Carbon monoxide poisoning? That’s how people get killed in garages when they leave the car running.”
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t just happen in cars or planes. It killed that tennis player, the guy with the long blond hair. You remember that?”
Justin nodded. “Vitas Gerulaitis. It wasn’t far from here.”
“Right in the guy’s home. Faulty heating installation. Big lawsuit.”
“So you think that’s what caused the crash? Bad heating system?”
“I’m certain of it. So’s Frank. The mechanic.”
“So, Ray, what does the FAA care if it’s pilot error or faulty valve installation? It’s horrible, and maybe there’ll be a lawsuit, but so what? It’s an accident. Shoddy work. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that this plane’s new,” Ray said. “No more than a year old. See this manifold? That ain’t new. Gotta be four, five years older than the plane. Maybe more.”
“Maybe there was something wrong with the new one.”
“Maybe there was. But nobody legit would have put this thing in as a replacement.”
“Are you saying that someone took out a new manifold and replaced it with one he knew would leak?”
“I can’t say he knew for sure. But this manifold looks pretty bad. Anyone who knew enough to put it in would know that. Hard to think it wasn’t deliberate,” Ray Lockhardt said. “Which is just what the asshole at the FAA doesn’t want me to say.”
“Yeah. And you want to know what the asshole at the FAA doesn’t want me to say?” Justin banged his palm against the dented body of the plane. “If you’re right, I’ve got a murder on my hands.”
Back in Ray’s small, glass-walled office, Justin closed the door and waved for the airport manager to sit down.
“When the guy in the Piper landed, did he have to check in? Sign anything?”
“He just had to pay me eight bucks as a landing fee. And that’s what he did. He got a Dr Pepper from that machine there and gave me my eight bucks.”
“You talk to him at all?”
“Some. Enough to know he was dying of thirst. He downed the soda practically in one gulp. Same thing before he took off two days ago. That guy loved his Dr Pepper.”
“Anyone flying with him?”
“Yeah. But I didn’t really see him. He didn’t come through the terminal, just unloaded some stuff from the plane and went to a car.”
“Rental?”
“Don’t think so. Someone picked them both up.”
“Any idea who?”
Lockhardt shook his head. “I wasn’t really paying attention. I didn’t get a close-up look.”
“Get any other impressions of the Dr Pepper guy?”
“I can tell you one thing for sure. He was a pilot. He wasn’t one of those newcomers, just took it up and thought it’d be fun to zoom around up there. He knew what he was doing.”
“How could you tell?”
“I’ve been doing this a long time. You get a feel.”
“Okay. You get any kind of a feel for Martin Heffernan?”
“Yeah. The guy’s a dick.”
“He told me he was here doing ramp checks. What does that mean?”
“It means bullshit work, basically. He goes around, looks to see if we’re parking the planes properly. Then he hassles whatever pilots he finds, checks to see if they got their P.O.H.-Pilot’s Operating Handbook-and their airworthiness certificate. Checks your weight and balance, your license. .” Ray looked off into the distance, then came back to focus on Justin. “You know, that makes this even weirder.”
“What does?”
“Well, when Heffernan went inside the Piper, he had to have seen the extra gas tank.”
“So?”
“So it’s illegal. I mean, again, I can’t say guaranteed that tank’s not kosher, but I’d pretty much bet on it.”
“Why?”
“Anything that throws off a plane’s weight and balance has to be approved.”
“By. .?”
“The FAA. Everything has to be recalculated if you add a huge tank like that. By a certified mechanic. Then you gotta get a form 337. That becomes a permanent record in the plane’s log and part of the airworthiness certificate. That tank just don’t look like it’s got a 337. And Heffernan couldn’t’ve missed it.”
“Hold on.” Justin’s voice got slightly louder now, the only outward sign that he was getting excited. “Do you mean Heffernan was inside the Piper before it took off?”
“Yeah. When he was doing his inspections.”
“And did he talk to the pilot?”
“Sure. I’m tellin’ you, he inspected the plane.”
“And checked his license?”
“Had to have.”
“That son of a bitch!” He saw the confused look on Ray’s face, decided there was no reason he shouldn’t explain. “The pilot? The one who was killed-he didn’t have any ID on him.”
“You think Heffernan stole it?”
“I thought so before. Now I’m certain of it.”
“Why?”
All Justin could do was shrug. It was the most intelligent answer he could come up with.
“So you don’t know who the guy is?”
“No, not yet. I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Nope. He never mentioned it.” Ray grabbed a tissue, blew his nose. “I think I’m coming down with something. The change in temperature, you know? One day it’s fifty, the next day it’s thirty.” He blew his nose again. Then said, “You wanna find out the pilot’s name?”
Justin had to bite his tongue. But all he said, quite slowly, was, “Yes, Ray, I do.”
“Well, I know how you can do that.”
“You do?”
“Sure. If he owned the plane I do.”
Now Ray led him back to the hangar. When they got close to the Piper, he pointed toward the plane’s tail. On it were black painted letters and numbers reading: NOV 6909 Juliet.
“That’s the tail number,” Ray explained. “All you gotta do is check it out with FAA records and it’ll tell you the name of the owner. Anyone can do it. It’s a public record.”
“Ray, you are a very good man.”
Pleased, Ray Lockhardt said, “So can I ask you a question? Couldn’t you just take the guy’s fingerprints to find out who he is? That’s what they always do on Law amp; Order. I mean, isn’t that the procedure?” He looked happy using the word “procedure” talking to a cop.
“Yes, that is the procedure. But it only works if his fingerprints are on file somewhere. In this case it doesn’t matter because there were no fingerprints.”
“In the plane?”
“Anywhere.”
“Well, I know he’s dead and all, but he still has fingers, doesn’t he?”
“Trust me, Ray. There are no fingerprints to be had.”
There was a brief silence, then Ray Lockhardt’s mouth spread into a big smile. “I wouldn’t be so sure, if I were you.”
Before Justin could move, Ray was out the door of the hangar. When he returned, he was carrying a small plastic garbage can.
“It’s from behind the counter in the terminal. Place has been pretty empty the last couple of days. Since the bomb. And Pepe, the cleaning guy, he’s been out with the flu.”
“You trying to tell me something?” Justin asked.
“Yeah. I’m tryin’ to tell you all you gotta do is find the Dr Pepper can in here. I mean, if you want some fingerprints.”
Justin was almost out the door, carrying the garbage pail, when he heard Ray call out, “Does this mean we’re finally even?”
Without turning back, Justin answered over his shoulder, “Let your conscience be your guide, Ray. Let your conscience be your guide.”
Justin was outside and nearly to his red 1989 BMW convertible by the time Ra
y Lockhardt muttered to himself, “There ain’t no bein’ even with that guy. Who am I kidding?”
4
Justin decided against going back to the station. He’d had it for the day. Besides, he had a computer at home and the work he had to do could be done there.
He pulled into the pebbled driveway of his small 1880s Victorian house. When it was built it was meant to be low-income housing for workers at the local watch factory, about a mile down the road, closer to town. There was a twin house right next door to Justin’s, although the owners had made additions so it was no longer identical. Justin liked his house. It was charming and quirky and it had a nice, private backyard, well protected from his neighbors by a fence and tall trees, cherry and oak. Justin particularly liked his house because it had a lot of its own personality, which meant he didn’t have to bother to put much of his personality into it.
And he hadn’t bothered. His furniture was minimal. A bed and one chest of drawers in each of the two bedrooms. A TV in his bedroom. A comfortable couch in the living room. A PC. He’d put in a good stereo system because music was important to him. He could lose himself in music, mostly rock, sometimes jazz. Lately he’d tried opera and, to his surprise, he found that he liked it. He’d been listening to Maria Callas late at night, sitting in the dark, a drink in his hand, her passion spoke to him. Her urgency. But, at heart, he was a rock and roller. And as he got out of his car and headed inside, onto the screened-in front porch and into the living room, all he wanted to do was have a shot of a good single malt, maybe eventually smoke a joint, and be overwhelmed by some Warren Zevon or Lou Reed or possibly even Fun Lovin’ Criminals, a New York band he’d recently discovered. By the time he got to the CD player, he’d decided on something a little softer, more melancholy. An old Arlo Guthrie. Hobo’s Lullaby. It had been one of Alicia’s favorites. He couldn’t listen to it without thinking of her. As he pressed the play button, he could already hear the words in his head, the words he used to listen to over and over again after she died. It was a song about living too fast and too hard, about taking a look around and seeing what you’d become and feeling that your life was not your own.
That’s the way he’d felt for years after Alicia was gone. That, somehow, he had to be stuck in someone else’s life. It was only fairly recently that he’d felt as if he’d begun to return to his own existence, his own path. Now there was no denying it. Here he was. His house. His furniture. His job. His murder investigation. His missing victim. His life.
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