“He lost his wife, his childhood sweetheart, to the lifestyle. He can’t quit. But she could, and she did. He’s been caught up in the treadmill of touring, the drug culture, lawyers, agents, stalkers, groupies, tabloids, and hangers-on for fifteen years. He’s exhausted, has had enough, but he’s committed, tied up for life.
“He wants out, big time. In the beginning it was all about the music. He loved it. Now he doesn’t care if he ever sees a guitar again.
“He’s been busted for drugs and drunk driving, has been in and out of rehab at least twice. He’s clean now, but knows he’ll never stay that way if he goes back on tour, which he is contractually obligated to do.”
“Did he have kids with that childhood sweetheart?” Venturi asked. “Can’t he just square things with her and make it work?”
“They had no kids when she bailed. She’s got several now. Married a guy who comes home at the same time every night without having to fight off a thousand different temptations, from booze to drugs, to rock ’n’ roll sex.”
“Does he have another lifestyle in mind?”
“You’ll love this—you’ll goddamn relate to it, man.” Danny gestured like an orchestra conductor. “His dream is to be a deep-sea fisherman.”
Venturi smiled. “He can’t be all bad. But does he have enough brain cells left to pull it off? Can he stay off the drugs and alcohol?”
“Yeah, but since you seriously doubt my judgment these days, why not talk to him? See what you think.”
“I don’t doubt your judgment, Danny.”
“Don’t tell me that. It’s obvious, ever since Solange. You know I could’ve found a way onto that cruise ship the other day. Could have done the job, and slipped off, no problemo. Instead, you let Keri take the risks.”
“The risks were fewer. That’s the point, Danny. That plan was a thing of beauty. It all came together so smoothly, no heroics, no life-threatening stunts required. She walked on, then walked off the ship, as opposed to you being retrieved at sea in the dark, with twelve hundred possible witnesses and more shit than you can think of that might go wrong. Sure, you coulda done it. But why, if you didn’t have to? Save the risks for the big one, when there is no other recourse. You’re just sulking ’cause you couldn’t be a hero.”
“You don’t get it, Mike. This stateside spy-versus-spy shit can be so goddamn boring that sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe.”
“Tell me about it. I miss the action, too. But you’re too important to Luz and the kids to take unnecessary risks. Why ask for trouble? Which, unfortunately, reminds me—you mentioned a plane?”
Danny’s eyes brightened. “A jet. We can bring it down in the Atlantic where the water’s too deep to retrieve the fuselage. Errol Flagg flies his own plane. You know, like John Travolta, JFK Jr., and lotsa other celebrities. Beats flying commercial. I flew his Cessna Citation a few times myself, took over while he was busy doing the mile-high thing. Lands like a dream, all you need to do is watch the horizon.
“I miss flying, Mike. Can’t wait to fly the Osprey. You know the one. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Is it a chopper? Can’t wait to pilot one of those babies.”
Venturi had heard about the new military aircraft that takes off and lands like a helicopter but when airborne converts to a turboprop plane after the rotor, transmission, and engine nacelles rotate ninety degrees forward.
“I thought they were still experimental,” he said. “With problems. Heard they were widow makers.”
“Don’t believe the media, Mike. The first squadron is already in Iraq, deployed last month. The Osprey flies faster and farther. The cockpit’s got night vision and missile-warning systems, and it’s nuclear, biological, and chemical warfare protected. I can’t wait to fly one.
“Look, just meet Flagg, decide for yourself. I’m betting it’s a go. You’re gonna love him.”
Errol Flagg wasn’t as tall as he looked in the photos Venturi found on the Internet. Probably because most were taken from below, as he spun around up on stage in the spotlight’s glare, with his guitar, band members, backup singers and dancers.
Vicki was in the kitchen when Flagg arrived. Venturi had told her that Danny and a friend were coming for lunch.
Errol Flagg arrived first, driving a silver Porsche.
As he and Venturi shook hands, Vicki appeared with a salad bowl. She paused, her expression startled. “Errol Flagg,” she said, matter-of-factly, without hesitation. “I’m a great fan of yours.”
Her instant recognition did not surprise Flagg but did take Venturi aback. Maybe he was anchored in a different century.
Flagg’s hair was spiky and blond tipped. He wore skintight jeans anchored by a big silver belt buckle and looked hollow-eyed, too pale, and too thin. “Where’s Danny?” he asked.
Everybody always asked him that, Venturi thought, annoyed. He wondered himself. He had hoped Danny would arrive first, with the latest on the murder in Minneapolis. According to the news, investigators suspected that DelVecchio had been abducted from outside his home. They knew where he lived! What went wrong? Where the hell was Danny?
A buzz from the gate answered his question.
Danny and the rocker greeted each other like old war buddies.
“We’ve been through hell together,” Flagg explained gravely.
“I know the feeling,” Venturi said. He offered Flagg a whiskey, impressed when the man declined.
“I’m fresh out of rehab, the third time,” Flagg said candidly.
“Third time’s the charm,” Danny said reassuringly.
“I guess Danny’s told you what it’s like,” Flagg said. “I’m sorry he left the business. I miss him. He was a good influence, did a lot to keep me straight.” The timbre of Flagg’s speaking voice and his worn expression exuded the weary resignation of a troubled Shakespearean actor.
“It’s tough to explain. No one understands,” he said earnestly. “I can’t go anywhere, do anything. The paparazzi create a traffic jam if I go out for a beer and everybody, including waiters, waitresses, and the people who deliver room service, tries to sneak pictures with their cell phones to peddle to the tabloids. It’s a bummer to never have a private moment.”
“Wouldn’t you miss playing music, being in the spotlight?” Venturi said.
“Not the spotlight, I’ve had my fill of that. Someday, maybe, I might pick up a guitar again, but only for my own enjoyment. No band, no amps, no screaming crowds.
“To disappear forever,” he said longingly, “would be an impossible dream come true. Like finding a girl who wants sex with you because she cares, not so she can tape the deed and sell it to the highest bidder.”
“You wouldn’t disappear,” Venturi said. “Errol Flagg would. He’d be legally dead and gone, with an obituary and a death certificate. He’d no longer exist.”
“Dying young would be excellent,” Flagg said fervently. “Traditional. Rock stars die young. Did you know they live to an average age of forty-two in the USA and thirty-five in Europe?
“Buddy Holly, Elvis, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain. Good company,” he said jauntily. “Who am I to buck tradition? I’ve beaten the odds so far.” His smile faded. “But not much longer. It’s either that, or your way.”
Danny explained his idea.
“The impact would be in deep water, so deep that the plane breaks up and the fuselage—where you are—can’t be recovered,” he concluded.
Flagg looked pained for a long moment. “Ceci? My Cessna Citation? But I love that bird.”
“Never love anything that can’t love you back,” Danny said. “You’re leaving it behind either way. Why not take it out with you in a blaze of glory?”
“I like it,” Flagg finally said, after some thought. “Quick. Clean. Flying high into the big forever.” He looked pleased. “So, who will really be flying her when she goes down? You, Danny?”
“No, no, Errol,” Danny said. “It’s you, it has to be you.”
“Oh,
” the rocker said thoughtfully.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Venturi had no trouble spotting her in the crowd. He couldn’t miss her energetic walk and her red hair, pulled back into a bouncy ponytail, beneath a white baseball cap.
They met at the Port of Miami beneath the huge gantries and tall ships etched against a bright blue sky. Miami’s silver and pastel skyline loomed behind them.
He caught her in a bear hug, kissed her forehead, and took her bag.
Fellow passengers, though happy to be home, seemed somewhat subdued about the one left behind. The tragedy gave their trip a certain mystique.
“Never found.”
“Lost at sea.”
“So sad.”
“Sweet little old lady.”
“Had to miss a port of call because of the search,” one man grumbled.
“A terrible accident,” a sad-eyed woman murmured.
“Did you hear what happened?” Keri asked solemnly, as the comments of other travelers swirled around them. “The FBI interviewed everyone on our deck.”
“I’m sorry,” Venturi replied, “but in spite of it all, getting away did you a world of good. I swear you look younger than the last time I saw you.”
He saw the smile in her eyes.
Safely in the car, windows closed, she asked. “Did it go well? Did she make her flight?”
He nodded.
“Yesss!” She erupted into happy laughter. “Yesss! What a wonderful, wonderful cruise!”
She’d had a blast, she said. The FBI agent who spoke to her had even hit on her.
“So you plan to date him?” Venturi asked.
“You mean her—and no.”
He mentioned a new client, with no details, and asked if she’d help, since she was not due back at the office for two more days.
She asked who referred the client.
“Danny,” he said placidly, ignoring her expression.
Keri came to his place later, after checking her service, unpacking, and sifting through the mail.
Venturi steered her right to the war room. Errol sat at the big oval table, a bottle of Smartwater beside him, watching a videotape with Vicki. They were discussing small fishing villages along the coast of Scotland.
Before he could introduce her, Keri, in blue jeans, sandals, and a halter top, approached the conference table slowly, as though on tiptoe, eyes wide, expression transfixed.
“Errol? Errol Flagg? I don’t believe this! “Living Love” is my all-time favorite song. I play “Black and Chrome” when I drive to the hospital, so I don’t speed and get pulled over. I am your biggest fan.”
“No,” Victoria said quickly. “I am.”
All three turned expectantly to Venturi, as though he, too, would stake a claim to the title. “I was always working,” he said sheepishly, “and didn’t listen to much music.”
They all stared at him quizzically.
When Keri left the room to let Scout out, Errol Flagg’s hungry eyes followed approvingly. Venturi caught the look. “No,” he said softly, firmly shaking his head.
“Okay, mate.” Errol flashed both palms in instant surrender. “I’ve always had a thing for redheads. But understood,” he swore, “absolutely understood.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The day Errol Flagg died was gray and overcast under an indifferent sky. The forecast was for rain as a tropical depression moved in from the southeast.
Perfect. It meant fewer witnesses in the sky and on the sea.
Errol Flagg boarded his Cessna Citation at Opa Locka Airport, northwest of Miami. His flight plan listed his destination as Treasure Cay on Abaco Island. A frequent visitor in the past, he was to meet his manager, some friends, and models to party over the weekend.
He signed autographs for several airport maintenance workers and support personnel.
A recently hired, young fixed base operator fueled the Citation, checked the oil and engine, then cautiously asked the star to pose for a photo with him. Flagg, wearing his trademark stubble, spiky hair, boots, and designer jeans with a pale blue short-sleeved silk and linen shirt, cheerfully agreed.
A number of witnesses saw Flagg’s Cessna taxi down runway nine left, lift into the sky and make a wide turn, east-northeast toward the Bahamas.
Danny and Venturi scanned the sky, elated, as menacing thunderclouds built on the horizon. The weather was indeed perfect.
Twenty minutes into the flight, at nineteen thousand feet, Errol Flagg began to closely monitor his latitude and longitude. He had never liked flying over open water and had said as much to a number of friends and interviewers in the past. Those unplanned remarks were now fortuitous, foreshadowing, evidence of a grim premonition. He knew it would become part of his legend.
He scanned the vast sea and prayed that the outline barely visible in heavy rain below was Danny’s boat. Flagg made the sign of the cross, said his first Hail Mary in years, then keyed his radio.
“Mayday. Mayday, Citation Jet 79Juliet. I have smoke in the cockpit. I think I’m on fire. Request vectors to the nearest suitable airport.”
Miami Center to Citation Jet 79Juliet. Turn right heading 270, vectors to Freeport. When able, say fuel remaining and souls onboard. Do you read me?
Errol Flagg did not respond. Instead he depressurized the plane so he could open the door.
Citation Jet 79J, Miami Center, over. Citation Jet 79J, Miami Center how do you read?
Flagg turned off the autopilot.
Citation Jet 79J, Miami Center, over. Citation Jet 79J, Miami Center how do you read?
He donned the parachute, turned off the transponder, then banked into a sharp right turn and descent. That insured that when he jumped, the plane would be moving away from him as it spiraled downward.
We lost the transponder.
The air traffic controller’s comment to his supervisor was heard on the air.
Errol Flagg released the flight controls and pushed open the left cockpit door.
Citation Jet 79Juliet. Miami Center, over.
No answer.
We only have a primary target now.
Nineteen thousand feet over the Atlantic, Errol Flagg swung open the door of Ceci, his beloved Cessna Citation. He kissed her cold metal skin. “Good-bye, beautiful,” he said, then hit the air in a huge leap of faith. “Geronimo!” he yelled, not quite sure why. It was something he vaguely recalled from an old World War II movie he’d seen on TV. But it seemed appropriate. He always had a flair for the dramatic.
His parting cry was swallowed by a rush of wind, rain, and panic that literally sucked his breath away.
He counted to three and yanked the ripcord. To his immense relief, the parachute blossomed above him like a flower. The ride was a high. Hitting the water was a bitch. He landed hard, the air knocked out of him, and became tangled in the lines. The water was colder, the waves higher than he expected. He struggled to free himself but became further entangled, unable to swim or escape the chute. Beaten, battered, and buffeted about by natural forces that pushed, pulled, and dragged him under, he swallowed vast amounts of seawater.
The plan was for Danny to make the rescue alone. Venturi had also suited up, as a precaution—which was a good thing now that the mission seemed to be going awry.
They hit the water simultaneously, as the out-of-control Cessna tightened into a steeper and steeper spiral in a turbulent sky, accelerating past maximum operating speed.
Fighting towering waves, Danny reached Flagg first. He dragged him to the surface, held his head above water and tried to avoid becoming entangled himself as Venturi cut away the cords with his knife.
“Don’t lose the chute!” Danny shouted.
A deployed parachute was the last thing they wanted found near the wreckage.
They managed to maneuver both Flagg and the parachute back to the boat.
Both were so busy they barely saw the Citation slam into the sea several miles away, but they heard the impact.
Target
disappeared from radar.
Do you know who that was? said a shocked voice at Miami Center.
The Coast Guard and Bahamian authorities were notified for search and rescue.
Flagg was limp, a dead weight, as they wrestled his body into the boat.
“Shit,” Danny said, as the wake from the plane’s impact rocked the vessel.
Venturi, nearly knocked off his feet as he stowed the chute below, shouted, “Is Errol still breathing?”
“Goddammit,” Flagg responded. Sprawled out on the deck, he spit up seawater. Gasping for breath, he croaked, “I could’ve been killed!”
“Right,” Danny said. He turned the key in the ignition as Venturi guided the anchor line into the rope locker.
“Let’s go!” Venturi shouted above the wind and a stinging horizontal rain. “This will look like rush hour in a few minutes!”
Danny turned the key again. The engine did not respond. He and Venturi exchanged tense looks through the rain. He tried again. Nothing.
“How long do we have?” Venturi yelled, dragging out the tool kit. “A Coast Guard chopper or two will be overhead in less than twenty. The whole world will be right behind it.” Danny tried the engine again. Then again. The fifth time, it kicked in with a comforting explosion of sound.
Venturi breathed again. “Get below, out of sight!” he told Errol, who staggered and half-fell down the steps.
“My life was flashing in front of my eyes,” Danny said from the helm. “I saw it end with our faces plastered all over the press as the boaters accidentally in the right place at the right time to rescue rock star Errol Flagg.
“We’da had a whole lotta ’splaining to do. Or we would have had to drown Errol ourselves. This was close.” Danny grinned.
“Too close,” Venturi said as they turned toward home through rough seas.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Only an oil slick and thousands of bits of shattered wreckage surfaced in the area where Errol Flagg’s plane fell off the radar.
Legally Dead Page 20