Flight ik-8

by Jan Burke

  Myles was pleased that, so far, he was able to answer all of Mr. Dane’s questions this evening.

  “And were you able to learn anything more about the incident at the Sheffield Club?”

  “Yes, sir. The story being given to the media is inaccurate. The police are claiming that they are unsure of Captain Bredloe’s reasons for being there, even hinting that he was there because his wife is on the Historical Preservation Commission. But Captain Bredloe clearly expected some attack — there were SWAT team members on hand and a bomb squad checked the building before he entered.”

  “How curious.”

  “Yes, sir. We are trying to learn more. I should also mention that there is a rumor within the department that this has something to do with the investigation of Detective Lefebvre’s death.”

  Dane brooded over this, then said, “What about the NTSB report?”

  “We have had difficulty there, sir, but one of our associates is saying that they have found evidence of sabotage.”

  “Surprise, surprise,” Dane said, yawning delicately. “By whom?”

  “Person or persons unknown. They do not, of course, pursue criminal investigations. That is left to law enforcement. In this instance, to Las Piernas.”

  Dane watched the swans for a time, then said, “Have you made any progress on the other matter?”

  “The court cases and police files will be given to me tonight. I’ll study them in depth this evening. It will take another day to get the district attorney’s files.”

  “And you have prepared information for me about Detective Harriman?”

  “Yes, sir. When would you like that report?”

  “Oh, tomorrow will be soon enough. Bring it to me after you return from your assignment. Now, tell me who you have for me this evening.”

  “Tessa is here, sir, as you requested. She has already dined, also as you requested.”

  “Yes, she’s lovely in bed, but I can’t stand to listen to her talk. Probably what drove Trent Randolph to leave her. You know, although Tessa would have been an invaluable asset to us if she had been married to the man, I’m really glad that she wasn’t able to snare him after all, aren’t you? I just don’t think Trent was the sort of fellow who’d share his wife with me.”

  21

  Tuesday, July 11, 9:25 P.M.

  Las Piernas State University

  Frank waited in the hall outside a faculty office in one of the engineering buildings. He idly studied posters and displays that were by and large beyond his comprehension, listening to the drone of a professor’s voice in a nearby classroom. He shifted the cardboard box he was carrying — a little wider and shallower than a shoebox — to the other arm.

  Dr. Ray Wilkes had left a message on his voice mail, saying that he was leaving Wednesday afternoon for an out-of-state conference, but if Frank needed to talk to him before he returned next Monday, he could come by the university this evening. “I teach a summer session extension course tonight; we’ll finish up at about nine-thirty.”

  Frank had heard the message after a depressing visit to Bredloe. The captain’s bruises were showing more vividly now, worsening his appearance. And Miriam, past the initial shock and reassured that he would survive, was more fearful about the long-term effects of his injuries.

  When he had heard Wilkes’s message, he thought of the chief’s sarcastic remarks and briefly considered calling the professor to tell him that he appreciated the offer of help, but that things had changed and he was no longer pursuing that line of investigation. Instead, he stopped by the lab and talked a night-shift tech into letting him sign out the paper airplane.

  He had also called Yvette Nereault. Unlike the day before this time, she had answered the phone. He told her what he had learned from the NTSB and asked her to please not discuss it with anyone outside the family.

  “It’s a great injustice,” she said. “Not to me, but to Philippe. I am amazed that you worry that anyone would care about anything I might say. For ten years, we who loved him have been saying that Philippe was murdered. No one listened to us in all that time, so I don’t know why they should start listening now.”

  “Because now there is proof. I won’t lie to you — my chief thinks your brother was killed by the people who supposedly paid him off.”

  “But you don’t, do you?” she said. “You’ll forgive me if I sound astonished, Detective Harriman, but you see, this is something new to me — a member of that department who has not condemned Philippe out of hand. So — if you continue to work to clear Philippe’s name, I will keep quiet.”

  He had gone home, fed the dogs, and taken them for a run. He watched part of Polly Logan’s tape before heading out to the university. Without her commentary, he got a better feel for Lefebvre.

  Students began filing out of the classroom, and soon he heard other groups of them coming down the stairs at the far end of the hall. He saw an elderly gentleman in a three-piece suit and bow tie step out of the classroom. He carried a large valise. The man walked toward Frank, peering over a pair of half-glasses as he approached.

  “Professor Wilkes?” Frank asked.

  The man’s lips pursed and he shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. I’m Professor Frost. Can I help you?”

  “Thanks, but no — I have an appointment with Dr. Wilkes.”

  “Then I can only hope you believe that patience is a virtue, young man, because my esteemed colleague will undoubtedly be late for it.” He continued to stroll down the hall.

  The building began to empty out. Soon it grew quiet again. Frank found a plastic chair that someone had left in the hallway and dragged it down to the professor’s door. He sat down and looked at his watch — nine forty-five. Folding his arms around the box, he leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

  He awoke with a start when he heard another group of students coming down the stairs. He still had the box and opened it to see that the plane had not somehow been removed. He checked his watch again and saw that he had dozed off for only about ten minutes. He stood up and stretched, watching as the students — four men and two women — walked toward him. The young men were all dressed in a similar way, wearing sports coats over colorful shirts, and carrying backpacks. The clear leader of this group seemed to be a little older than the others, a grad student perhaps. He had the complete attention of his peers, although Frank couldn’t make out what he was saying. He apparently made a joke that was a hit, though, because they suddenly broke into laughter. As they came closer, the leader seemed to notice Frank for the first time. He suddenly looked chagrined and said, “Detective Harriman? I’m so sorry!” He hurried forward and extended a hand. “Ray Wilkes. Forgive me, I lost track of time.”

  “He didn’t lose track of time,” one of the female students said. “He doesn’t recognize the fourth dimension.”

  Wilkes sighed dramatically. “Wounded again, Jill. Now, you’ll all have to excuse me. Detective Harriman has been waiting for me for half an hour.”

  “You’re with the police?” Jill asked Frank.

  “He’s not in trouble, is he?” one of the young men asked at nearly the same time.

  “Yes, he’s with the police,” Wilkes said, unlocking his office door. “No, I am not in trouble — and yes, we’d like some privacy.” He smiled. “Scram.”

  They invited him to join them at the on-campus beer bar when he finished, invited Frank, too. Wilkes took a rain check, reminding them that he still needed to pack for the conference. Finally, after a prolonged chorus of “Bon voyage,” “Are you sure you don’t need a ride to the airport?” and “Good night, Dr. Wilkes,” they left.

  “I apologize again,” Wilkes said to Frank, inviting him to take a seat in the tiny but neatly organized office. “Now, how can I help you?”

  “I need your expertise on a matter concerning an open case, but I have to ask that this matter remain absolutely confidential.”

  “Certainly, I understand — otherwise your investigation may suf
fer. I promise I won’t discuss this with anyone else.”

  Frank hesitated, then said, “Ben said you’re the organizer of the paper airplane contest on campus — is that true?”

  Wilkes was openly surprised. “Yes. It’s one of the School of Engineering’s contributions to the university’s Spring Festival. Mercury Aircraft gives cash prizes to the winners. It’s also an assignment in some courses.”

  “So it isn’t just for fun?”

  “Oh, no. I mean to say, it’s fun, but there is a lot more to it than that. A paper airplane contest is a great way to teach the students about aerodynamics — lift and drag, the effect of thermals, stabilizer and wing design — and much more. For many of them, it’s the first time they’ve designed something as part of a team. Coming up with an original design is always harder than they imagine it will be.”

  “Are there specialists in this field? Expert paper airplane builders?”

  “Yes, absolutely. May I ask why you need one?”

  “You know of the attack on one of our captains?”

  Wilkes nodded. “I read about it — horrible. A remote-controlled lift toppled bricks onto him, right? To be honest, when Ben called, I thought you might have wanted me to examine that device.”

  “That might not be a bad idea, but I’m here tonight because of a paper airplane. The captain had this one in his pocket.” Frank extended the box to Wilkes. “We think it was used as a lure, so that he was positioned where the bricks would fall — but since the plane is so unusual, I wondered if it was also a signature of sorts. I’m hoping you might recognize the style.”

  Wilkes opened the box and took the plane out, then shook his head. “Unfortunately, I do recognize it.”

  “Unfortunately?”

  “This is a textbook paper airplane, I’m afraid. Literally.” He set the box on his desk, then scanned his bookshelf. He pulled out an oversize paperback, a book called Winging It. “For the classes, we use this one by Bray and Killeen, one by Blackburn and Lammers, and a few others.” Without needing to use the index, he opened the book to page 98 and handed it to Frank. There was a large photograph of a paper airplane, a plane nearly identical to the one found in Bredloe’s pocket. Instructions for making it began on the next page.

  “So it’s not unique,” Frank said, disappointed.

  “Dinterman’s Stunt Flyer,” Wilkes said. “I would have given a failing grade to the student who turned this in — an F for plagiarism and for failing to make progress in the class. We show them how to make this one during the first week of the course. We even demonstrate it at the festival.”

  “So dozens of people know how to make this?”

  “More than dozens, I’m afraid,” Wilkes said ruefully. “A little over a hundred at the very least.”

  Frank studied the folding instructions in the book for a moment, then said, “This looks like origami — aerodynamic origami. It can’t be that easy to learn.”

  “Oh, no — most people won’t fold it as precisely as is necessary. I will say this much for your airplane maker — he or she is patient and loves precision. You can see that in the quality of the work.”

  “Tell me more about this Stunt Flyer — what is it supposed to do?”

  “Acrobatics. The plane is designed to slowly loop its way downward from the height at which it is launched. It’s not designed for distance, but you won’t have to run after it, and it stays in the air longer than most.”

  “So it would be ideal for use in an enclosed space,” Frank said.

  “Yes.”

  “How many paper airplane contests are there each year — locally, in Las Piernas?”

  “In Las Piernas? One. Ours. This year’s was our third event.”

  “Only open to students?”

  “No — anyone can enter. The event is actually several contests — prizes for distance, duration — that’s time aloft — aerial acrobatics, and so on. Within each, there are categories of competition. We have faculty, student, and public competitions. The same man takes the faculty competition every year, so we may start handicapping.”

  “You?”

  He laughed. “No. Professor Frost.” Seeing Frank’s smile, he asked, “Do you know him?”

  “We met briefly this evening. But about the contest — do you have any lists of competitors? Entry forms perhaps?”

  “Yes, both, if you need them.” He moved to a file cabinet, halted, and said, “I probably shouldn’t be giving this information to you, but — well, Ben speaks highly of you. Can I trust you not to sell the names and addresses to a mailing list or telephone solicitor?”

  “I’m only looking for one name — I’m not sure whose name it is. But I suspect the attacker is someone who knows the captain, so maybe he learned how to fold this plane here. Maybe somewhere else, but I’d like to give this a shot.”

  Wilkes pulled three thick folders out of a drawer. “I do wish I could stay around to help with this.”

  Frank declined Wilkes’s offer of a ride to his car. The air had cooled considerably from the heat of the day, and a walk on this quiet, moonlit night would be pleasant, he decided. It would give him time to think.

  He made his way across the campus alone, carrying the plane’s box and the three bulky file folders. During the spring or fall, even at this hour, groups of students would have been leaving classrooms, talking in the halls. But now, during summer session, the quad was nearly deserted. He saw a few students walking toward one of the libraries, but no one else. A little later, as he passed an open window near one of the art buildings, he saw lights and heard the sound of steel drums beating, caught a peculiar mix of scents of paint and brush cleaner and linseed oil — someone listening to music while working late in one of the studios.

  He took the shortcut offered by a path through the campus sculpture garden. As he strolled past the abstract metal shapes, he wondered if he had jumped to conclusions about the paper airplane. Maybe Bredloe had some other enemy and the paper airplane was just a coincidence. Maybe it didn’t have anything to do with Lefebvre’s killer — maybe he had assumed a connection that wasn’t really there just because he had come from seeing the wreckage of Lefebvre’s plane not long before.

  He had a sudden sensation of being watched, and halted. He was nearly in the center of the garden, surrounded now by an alien landscape of rising curves and sharp angles — a few of the large sculptures reflected moonlight off their highly polished surfaces, but most eclipsed it, darkening the pathway.

  He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and turned quickly — and beheld nothing more than the garden’s odd patchwork of shadow and light. He waited. The faint pulse of the drum music reached him, and the distant, intermittent sound of cars on a campus road. He walked a little farther, then quickly stepped behind a tall, flat piece of metal with a single, four-inch hole in it. A placard at the base said the title of the piece was “Mother.”

  He watched the pathway. Although he had seen nothing more, he now felt sure that someone had followed him. From where? He would have seen anyone who waited in the hall outside Wilkes’s office. Outside the engineering building? That was a possibility. There were many places — including inside other buildings — from which someone could have watched his progress until he reached the garden. At that point, the watcher would have been forced to follow him or give up pursuit.

  He considered circling back to try to come up behind the follower, but just then he thought he heard a hesitant step. He stayed still, listening, watching.

  Again he caught a glimpse of movement, a shadow cast where one had not been a moment ago. He shifted the folders, keeping his right hand — his gun hand — free. Suddenly he heard running footsteps on the path, moving away from him, back toward the art studios. He followed, cautiously at first, leaving the pathway to dart between sculptures, staying low.

  He reached the edge of the garden, but did not step out into the open. His pursuer could have used any one of several bordering buildings as his me
ans of escape. Again Frank waited. The steel drum music stopped. Its absence seemed to amplify the silence left in its wake, until a mockingbird began a noisy chant in a nearby ficus. Frank moved back among the sculptures.

  He stayed on the grass planted between the works of art, off the concrete path. When he reached the other side of the garden, he studied his surroundings, but now he was as sure that the follower had given up as he had been sure of his presence earlier. Still, he stayed alert on the walk from the garden to the nearby stairs, from the stairs to the adjoining lot, where he was parked. He saw no one, and no other cars were parked near his own. He got into the Volvo’s front seat and started the engine.

  He was about a block from the campus when he noticed that his left side mirror was out of adjustment.

  22

  Tuesday, July 11, 11:30 P.M.

  The Kelly-Harriman Home

  Frank set the files on the dining room table, where Irene had set up her notebook computer. “Mind if I work next to you?” he asked.

  “Not at all — but I’m not going to be much of a conversationalist.”

  “I’m not trying to force you to talk about our argument—”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. It’s just that I have to do some work tonight if I’m going to take time off to go to Phil’s funeral in the morning.”

  “I’ve got some papers to look through,” he said. “I’ll keep you company.”

  She glanced up at him then, perhaps catching something in his tone of voice, and said, “Everything okay?”

  He shrugged. “Case is spooking me, that’s all.”

  When he didn’t say more, she said lightly, “Well, nothing like a little paperwork to reassure a person — the power of the mundane. Have a seat.”

  So he sat across from her. Soon she was immersed in her writing, barely aware of his presence. He opened one of Wilkes’s folders, listening to the click and tap of the keyboard while she wrote. For a few minutes, he did not read — he simply watched her, by turns taken with her intensity, then amused by the faces she made as she concentrated on the story.