The Gold Dragon Caper_A Damien Dickens Mystery

by Phyllis Entis

  “That’s correct.”

  “Okay, there’s only one plane matching those dates. It came in on the 11th, and was parked in the maintenance hangar for a routine check at the pilot’s request. Departed late on the 20th.”

  “Mr. Dobbins told me you would have a copy of the inbound and outbound flight plans filed by the pilot?”

  “Yes, those would have been filed with me. Wait here while I’ll pull the sheets.”

  Jerome was back in a few minutes, a slender manila folder in his hand. Without waiting for an invitation, I stood next to him as he flipped open the folder to examine its contents. “Plane was a Douglas DC-3,” he said, a hint of surprise in his voice. “A twin-prop. You don’t see those used much for charters anymore. Too bad I was on vacation until this morning. I would have liked to have given it a once-over. The pilot’s name is Zachary Smits. According to this log, the inbound flight originated in Blanding, Utah, with a refueling stop in Janesville, Wisconsin.”

  “What about the outbound flight plan?”

  He turned a page in the file. “The destination is given as Minneapolis-St. Paul. A direct flight with no refueling stops.”

  “Minneapolis, Minnesota?”

  “Yup,” he pointed to a three-letter code printed by hand in uppercase letters in the ‘Destination’ box on the form. “MSP is the code for Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport. Of course, the pilot could’ve amended his flight plan en route.”

  “You mean, he’s not obliged to go where he said he was going?”

  “A pilot can change his flight plan while he’s in the air, as long as he notifies air traffic control, and closes out the revised flight plan after he lands. It’s not something most pilots like to do, but conditions change when you’re in the air: weather, mechanical problems, and such like.”

  “So, he might have gone anywhere? How would I find out where he actually landed?”

  “You’ll need to check with FAA. All flight plans are filed with them.”

  “Can I get a photocopy of those forms?” He responded with a curt nod, and I wandered back to Dobbins’s office while I waited for the copies.

  Dobbins looked up at my approach. “Good timing,” he said. “One of the mechanics who worked on the plane you’re interested in just came on duty. His name is Emile Stubbs. He’s an old-timer, and got a kick out of working on the DC-3. He spent some time sharing war stories with the pilot. Stubbs will be along in a minute.” Dobbins winked. “He likes a good doughnut, by the way.”

  I caught the hint, and told him I’d wait for Stubbs by the coffee shop. Detouring past the Pilot Services desk, I picked up the flight plan copies and thanked Robbins for his help. “If you think of anything else you might have seen or heard,” I said, “please get in touch with me through one of these numbers.” I fumbled in my jacket pocket for a business card, turned it over, and wrote Susan Sutherland’s number on the back. Underneath, I added the phone number for the Stowe Police Department. Robbins threw me a Boy Scout half-salute in acknowledgment as he pocketed the card.

  I reached the coffee shop just ahead of a wiry, gray-haired man wearing a pair of greasy cargo pants and a plaid shirt. His face was ruddy and weathered, as though he spent most of his time working outdoors. I held out my hand in greeting. “Mr. Stubbs? I’m Damien Dickens. Can I buy you a coffee?”

  “Just ‘Stubbs’ will do. Cream and double sugar.”

  I ordered two coffees and a half-dozen doughnuts, and carried them over to a table in the corner. As he reached for one of the doughnuts, I asked what he could tell me about the DC-3 and its pilot.

  A slow smile spread over his face as he blew on his coffee to cool it. “Never thought I’d have a chance to get my hands on a gooney bird again.”

  “Gooney bird?”

  “That’s what we called the C-47, the military version of the DC-3.” He was looking at me, but his eyes were focused on a distant memory. “I barely missed World War II. I enlisted in ’46, right after my 18th birthday. I had worked as an auto mechanic after I left school, and was especially good with engines. Once I finished basic training, my CO recommended me for the aircraft maintenance school.” He stopped to bite into his doughnut, a blissful smile spreading across his face as he chewed and swallowed the double-chocolate delicacy. “In ’47, I was posted to Germany with the Army of Occupation. During the Berlin airlift, my job was to keep the gooney birds flying.” He shook his head, a wistful smile playing over his lips. “Those were the days.”

  “Tell me about the DC-3 you worked on here.”

  He gave himself a visible shake, jolting his mind back to the present. “It was clean and in good condition. That’s usually the case with an owner-pilot. I went over the maintenance checklist, but there was almost nothing that needed attention. It would have taken me no more than half a day if the pilot and I hadn’t spent so much time jawing.”

  So, the pilot was also the owner, I thought to myself. That could be significant. “What can you tell me about the pilot?”

  “Zack Smits? He’s about my age. He flew C-47s in Korea before mustering out. Bought his plane through a government auction ten or fifteen years ago. Smits operates local charter flights and parcel delivery services in Utah, Nevada and California. He does a lot of work for one of the casino operators.”

  He was a talker, and I was grateful for his flow of words, which I sifted through while considering my next move. By the time Stubbs had finished his coffee and doughnuts, I knew what I had to do. I thanked him, gave him my card, and used the pay phone to call Susan.

  The weather was starting to close in as I drove back down the Interstate. By the time I reached the Waterbury-Stowe exit, snow was falling at a steady pace. The road was getting slick, and I concentrated on keeping Susan’s car from sliding into in a ditch. I breathed a sigh of relief when I reached Stowe’s Main Street. The all-wheel drive on the Subaru kept me moving forward as I climbed Taber Hill Road. I negotiated the right-hand turn onto Lois Lane, and rolled down the long driveway to Susan’s log home.

  She greeted me at the door. “I’ve packed your bag, and I’m coming with you.” She pointed to my well-worn valise and the two other pieces of luggage sitting next to it on the foyer floor. “I need to get back to Atlantic City.”

  “Where’s Laporte? And what about the FBI agent? Did he ever show?”

  “Came and went. He’s driving up to Burlington with Captain Laporte to inspect the rental car. The Burlington police towed it to their forensics garage. The FBI agent wanted to look over the car before deciding whether to have the vehicle transferred to a federal lab for examination.”

  I loaded the bags into the trunk of the Subaru, and Hershey jumped into the rear seat. Susan volunteered to drive, and I handed the keys to her with a sigh of relief. We were silent on the way to the airport. I was thinking through what I needed to do, and she was navigating the treacherous road conditions. It wasn’t a comfortable silence, though. I was aware of a constraint. An unwelcome reminder that last night’s drama and Millie’s intemperate action had taken a toll on our relationship. A toll that would take time to repair.

  We reached the airport, and Susan pulled the car up to the curb. Our pilot, Manfred Warrenburg, was waiting for us next to the Flight Services counter. He grimaced when he saw Hershey, but made no other objection to his presence. We followed him out to the plane, settled ourselves in the passenger cabin, and were airborne within a few minutes. Once we had reached our cruising altitude, Warrenburg informed us over the intercom we would be landing at Trenton-Mercer airport in 30 minutes or so, adding that we should stay in our seats with seat belts fastened, as the ride could get bumpy.

  Susan and I looked at each other from across the aisle. We both started to speak at once. I gestured for her to go ahead.

  “No,” she said. “You first.”

  “I have a lead on Artie’s whereabouts. It’s not real solid. I’d describe it as a strong hunch.”

  “Where do you think he’s been taken?�
�

  “Blanding, Utah. A charter plane flew into Burlington from Blanding on the 11th. An old DC-3. The only people on board were the pilot and one passenger. From the description I pieced together, the passenger looked a lot like Duke Zyklos, aka Tyler Wilkins.”

  “The man you found at the foot of the cliff on Mt. Mansfield? The one you believe snatched Artie?”

  “Yes, he rented a car from the Scottie MacTavish Drive-UR-Self, near the airport. I found the car in the parking lot of the general aviation terminal at Burlington Airport. That’s the vehicle Laporte and the FBI agent are on their way to investigate.”

  “Then, what…”

  “Late Sunday evening, the DC-3 left Burlington. This time, there were two passengers: one was a man, and the other a boy, about twelve or thirteen years old. I wasn’t able to get a description of either one. The witness, a maintenance technician by the name of Stubbs, told me they walked around the outside of the terminal building to reach the plane. No one inside the terminal got a good look at them.”

  “Was the boy…” she paused, swallowing hard, “was Artie going willingly?”

  “I asked Stubbs about that. Apparently, the two were walking hand-in-hand. There didn’t appear to be any overt threat or coercion.”

  Susan dropped her head into her hands for a moment. When she lifted it back up, her eyes were glistening. “Why are we wasting time going to Lawrenceville?” Her voice caught. “Why aren’t you following them? What are you waiting for?”

  “Trust me on this.” I reached across the aisle to take her hand, but she shook me off. “I need to find out more about the Hastings kid. The student on the ski trip who lied to the school chaperone about Artie spending Sunday night with Mary and Zeb. I need to know how he fits into this.” She shook her head, unconvinced. “It could be important, Susan.”

  “I’m coming to the school with you. The headmaster knows me. He knows I’m Artie’s aunt.”

  “That could be helpful. I want to have a look at Artie’s room and go through his things. You’ll have a better idea than I would whether anything is amiss.”

  The plane lurched, interrupting our conversation. Warrenburg’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Tighten your seat belts and hang on. We’ll be on the ground in a few minutes, but it’s going to be a rough approach.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The snow had stopped by the time we climbed into our rental car, but the wind had taken over, swirling the fresh-fallen flakes across the road, reducing visibility to a few feet. It took 30 minutes to drive the five miles from the airport to the Lawrence All-Suites Country Inn, where Susan had reserved rooms. We stumbled out of the car and into the lobby, propelled through the revolving doors by a rogue gust of wind.

  The fire in the lounge looked inviting. I proposed we eat there, as Hershey wasn’t permitted in the main dining room. Susan agreed, but Warrenburg begged off, explaining he needed his statutory eight hours of sleep in advance of our planned flight the next day. The lounge was too exposed for private conversation. After we had eaten, I suggested to Susan that we adjourn to my suite to discuss our next moves. She hesitated for an instant - just long enough for me to notice - before nodding her assent.

  I unlocked the door to Room 117 and held it open for her. Located on the ground floor, it was a suite in name only. A narrow vestibule offered access to a modest bathroom on the left. Beyond, the room opened up into a small sitting area furnished with a stiff convertible sofa, a matching chair set at a precise 90º angle to the sofa, a corner lamp table, and a coffee table. A 4-foot tall stub wall separated the sitting area from the bedroom portion of the suite. I waved an invitation for Susan to seat herself, and offered her a drink. She nodded her acceptance, and I walked into the bedroom to explore the contents of the mini-bar. It contained the usual assortment of miniature bottles of Scotch, gin, rye and vodka, a couple of airline-sized, screw-capped bottles of wine, and two mini-flasks purporting to contain Napoleon brandy. I grabbed the brandy, poured the contents of the bottles into two plastic cups, and walked back into the sitting area.

  Susan had claimed the armchair. I handed one of the cups to her and, after taking a seat on the sofa, sampled the amber liquid. The brandy was raw, and I could feel it sear its way down my throat. Susan took a sip, grimaced, and placed her cup on the lamp table next to the chair. She sat erect, her back not touching the chair, her hands clasped primly in her lap. Hershey, sensing the tension between us, circled twice before laying down across my feet, his head resting on his front paws, his eyes open and alert.

  “You can relax,” I told Susan. “I’m not going anywhere.” With a wry grin, I gestured toward Hershey. My feeble attempt at humor broke the tension. She laughed, and leaned back into the armchair. I took another sip of the brandy, and set it down. “You know, this brandy would taste better if it was cut with some coffee. Shall I?“ I tried to stand, but was stopped by a warning grumble from Hershey.

  “Better let me do it.” Susan rose from the chair and busied herself with the coffee maker.

  After a few minutes, she returned with a small tray holding two steaming cups of coffee, a few packets of sugar, and some thimble-sized containers of fake cream. Thanking her, I took one of the cups, added a shot of brandy to the black coffee, and took an exploratory taste. Not great, but an improvement, I decided. I waited for Susan to resume her seat before asking, ”You said you needed to return to Atlantic City. Why the rush?”

  “While you were on your way back from Burlington, I had another phone call from Derek Turpin,” Her voice dragged with fatigue and worry. “He’s pressing me for a decision on his offer to put up the money for Artie’s ransom.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I temporized. I told him I needed to discuss it with Mary and Zeb. A provision in Celine’s will requires they be consulted on any decision with a significant bearing on Artie’s inheritance. Even though my sister named me as his legal guardian, they still have de facto custody.”

  “How did Turpin respond to that?”

  “As you would expect him to. He pushed hard. I told him I would be back in Atlantic City tomorrow, and would have an answer for him by then. We’re meeting in his office at 2pm.” She wrinkled her brow. “By coincidence, a few minutes after I got off the phone with Turpin, the kidnapper called again. To remind me the clock was ticking, he said, and to warn me for the last time to call off the cops.”

  I took a swallow of my coffee, processing this latest development. “I don’t think the timing was coincidental. And I’m not crazy about your plan to meet alone with Turpin in his office.”

  “You think I can’t hold my own with him?” Her face hardened as she gripped the arms of her chair. “I’m not exactly a novice at dealing with men like Turpin. Not anymore.”

  “I know you can hold your own in a negotiation. That’s not the issue. I’m concerned for your safety.” She leaned forward, about to reply, but I didn’t give her a chance to interrupt. “Hear me out. You will be on his turf, in the penthouse of a building that he owns. Staffed by people he owns.”

  She looked unconvinced. “You can’t think…”

  “I think Derek Turpin will say or do anything he believes will get him what he wants. And that includes kidnapping you, if necessary, in order to force Mary and Zeb to agree to his terms.” I took a deep breath and blew it out. “I can’t accompany you to Turpin’s office, much as I want to. But you shouldn’t go alone.”

  “Who do you suggest I take along?”

  “Bruno Caravaggio. Before he turned respectable, he lived on the fringes of the biker-gang world. He’s strong, smart, and quick on his feet. What’s more, he has a yen for detective work. He’s been a big help to Millie and me on more than one occasion during the last three or four years. You can say he’s your chauffeur, your personal assistant, your bodyguard, whatever you want. As long as he’s with you in Turpin’s office to watch your back. In fact, it wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to hire him as a bodyguard and driv
er until this situation is resolved.”

  “I’ll think about it and let you know tomorrow.” She pushed herself out of the chair. “I’m done in. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

  I stood to see her out, Hershey having rolled off my feet onto his side. “I’ll call Bruno and see whether he’s available,” I said. “We’ll finalize our plans in the morning.”

  Hershey was getting restless, so I put on my coat and took him outside to do his business. When we got back, I checked my watch and did the math. It was 8:30pm in Las Vegas. I referred to the scrap of paper on which I had scribbled a telephone number, and made a long-distance call. The phone rang seven or eight times before the receiver was lifted with a clatter, and a slurred female voice said, “Hullo?”

  “Can I speak to Millie?” I said without preamble.

  “Huh?”

  “Is that Sonya?”

  “Who wants to know?” The voice was alert now, and wary.

  “This is Damien Dickens,” I enunciated. “I’m looking for my wife, Millie. Colin’s sister.”

  “Oh, yeah. She’s not here now.”

  “When do you expect her?”

  “Dunno.” I heard a baby wailing in the background. “Damn, you woke the baby. I gotta go.” I heard a click as she hung up on me.

  I stood for a long moment, the receiver still gripped in my hand. Finally, I replaced it in the cradle, and flipped on the television on my way to the minibar.

  Grabbing the ice bucket from the tray beside the TV set on the bureau, I fetched a supply of ice cubes from the machine at the end of the hall. After draining the dregs of brandy out of one of the plastic cups in a single swallow, I filled the cup with ice and poured in a slug of Scotch. I placed the TV remote control on the nightstand, made myself comfortable on the bed, and tasted the Scotch. It was surprisingly drinkable, perhaps helped along by the ice. I swallowed it down, poured the contents of a second miniature bottle over the remaining ice, and swallowed that, too, then chased it down with one more. Kicking off my shoes, I swung my feet onto the bed, leaned my head against the pillow, and closed my eyes.