by George Jehn
“Airline pilots make good money. Why does the kid still live with his parents?” Daly muttered as they got into the car. “If I was young and good-looking like him, with a job like his, the last thing I’d want would want to do is live with Mommy and Daddy, especially after what we just witnessed. I’d be too busy shacking up with every stewardess I could get my body parts on.”
“You’re showin’ your age, John. There are no more stewardesses. Nowadays they’re called flight attendants.” A serious Morganthaler removed a paper from his jacket pocket. “The quick stats from the airline and our cursory background check show he’s twenty-five and brand-new, which he mentioned. Maybe that’s the reason? But I’ll run credit and further checks and see what I come up with. You wanna get a court order to tap the pilots’ phones?” Morganthaler knew it would be difficult for the local cops to get enough evidence to present to a judge, unless Preis or Shepard converted to Islam, but the Feds carried sufficient weight to get it done without a hassle, even without clear-cut evidence.
Daly was deep in thought. “No, not yet. We have nothing. Maybe later,” he sighed. “Let’s start by visiting the flight attendants, as you like to call ‘em and the other two pilots. After we check their backgrounds and other stuff, maybe we’ll come up with something definitive? If so, then I’ll go for the wires. If any of the crew was involved, they wouldn’t be pros and would make mistakes.”
“The kid said he doesn’t have a cellphone or use the internet?” Morganthaler reminded him. “That doesn’t make sense. I thought by now almost all young people used the internet.”
“That’s what he said, but maybe he’s bullshitting us? Let’s check to see if he does have a cell, and his laptop will tell if he uses the internet.”
“Except his old man was sitting right there and that prick would have said something if the kid was lying.”
“You’re probably right.” To change the subject Daly added, “What really pisses me off is the switch wasn’t discovered sooner, before the bags arrived in Manhattan.” Daly heaved a sigh as he started the Ford, turning the air conditioning up full blast. “These fucking Fords suck. Why the hell can’t they give us something decent like a Honda?” he wondered aloud as the blast of cold air hit him right in the face.
“Maybe it didn’t happen ‘til the bags got to Manhattan,” Morganthaler ruminated aloud.
Daly didn’t want to hear any of Morganthaler’s Sherlock, off-the-cuff Holmes hypotheses. He was accustomed to first logically breaking down all the possibilities and doing the timeline, alone. Here, that amounted to a huge block of info needing to be whittled down, eliminating the pieces that didn’t fit. Although currency was stolen, making it a federal offense, because the crime might have taken place on NY airport property the Port Authority cops were brought in, meaning Daly was stuck with Morganthaler; at least for the foreseeable future. That was okay at the outset because Morganthaler better knew the inner workings of the New York airports. “In this goddamn weather either you cook or freeze,” Daly interjected, feeling the dampness penetrating his flesh. “Our list of possible scenarios and perps is way too long.”
“Maybe some federal government workers did it in Boston or New York, or at the airport—anywhere.”
“Spoken like a true cop. That narrows it down to about a hundred fucking people,” Daly replied with more than a bit of sarcasm in his voice. But, if that turned out to be the case it would be the FBI’s sole jurisdiction. “The only thing we know now is anything could have happened, anywhere. It’s a totally different world today where the bad guy doesn’t always lose or get what he deserves ‘cause there are lots of loose ends that never come together.” Daly often made major breakthroughs by grinding everything down, which was like lifting a veil. But a repetitive routine like the transport and destruction of the money creates huge cracks in any security blanket. This was especially true for someone with insider knowledge who could outwit the system. He would have to first work out a precise time and location, a T and L theory, try to see when and where the best opportunity was afforded the thief or thieves and look for a crucial piece of the puzzle. Jealousy and distrust between the feds and locals would make this process thornier. Trying to move on from there he stated, “Frank, we’ve got to immediately pool all our information. Don’t shut me out. And, no inter-agency bullshit squabbling or clash of cultures. We have to share every shred of info without going through the customary channels, even if egos get bruised and toes stepped on. That way we both win.”
“You have my word there won’t be anything between you and I. But the agency stuff could be different. Our people don’t like being treated like gofers and then left on the street like dog shit. Remember what went on with the Big G, post-9/11. It was a fucking disgrace. Even though the Towers were PA property, you Feds put up a firewall as thick as a bank vault. It’s a two-way information highway. I know you’re never impressed with the locals, but…”
“I’ll speak with my people, but old habits die hard. Make sure your guys understand, so I won’t have to pull out the gold,” referring to his FBI badge, as if the PA cops would genuflect in awe. Reality dictated this would have as much impact as whipping out his dick. Daly put the car in gear and turned to his new partner and using carefully chosen words said, “This ain’t gonna be an easy one. It’s like sinking your teeth into one end of a calzone, when the hot cheese comes out the other end and burns you. Solving this is a mission for me, like the robbery was an art form for the perp or perps.” Daly hesitated and added, “I do not like to lose,” intense beads of sweat slowly forming under the collar of his starched shirt.
“Just so you know, neither do I.”
. . .
Along with a throbbing skull Juni also had burning anger, but wouldn’t phone Christina or Erik as the cops had probably already interrogated them. He found an old Mets cap in the trunk, moved the clips to the largest position and gingerly covered his head. For now, his singular priority was to put as much distance between himself and the rotten city of Boston, as quickly as possible. But he vowed to return, patronizing some local saloons and softball games in the hope of running into the scumbag who clobbered him. Gobbling up the asphalt on I-90 as quickly as his condition and the weather allowed, he constantly rubbed his neck and forehead in a vain attempt to rid himself of the pain emanating from inside his skull. There was still a decent river of traffic and the first roadside rest provided a dark enough location to discard the stolen license plates and purchase gauze and aspirin in the 24-hour convenience store. As the adrenaline rush from the run-in with Mr. Concrete Face dissipated, driving down the glistening, night-draped interstates, the fog and light drizzle occasionally changed into an intermittent lashing rain clattering down, snapping against the windshield like pebbles. He studied the rain as if it held an answer. As the dark highway whipped past, the hour got later and the traffic lightened. Although exhausted and hurting, especially when he had to move his head horizontally, the weather required slower speed, which provided a bizarre form of relief, allowing him to hopefully come up with a vital but elusive piece. He liked short and finite moves to solve a mystery, so during the arduous journey he repeatedly went over and over what happened, but despair replaced hope with each passing mile. Closer to home he lit up a Marlboro, but even that tasted lousy and he threw it out the window, vowing to quit. After passing through just awakening towns, he pulled into the driveway a bit past four, in a constant drizzle. Everything appeared ugly as the summer sun was ineffectually attempting to spread its first gray tint on top of the cloudy eastern sky and the sopping wet air was beginning to warm ever so slightly. With mist still hiding the dawn he went to bed after fitting large gauze pads on his wound so no blood would stain the pillow case. After penning a note for his wife asking not to be awakened, he was wide awake anyway because lying on his back to shield the wound from view meant placing m
ore pressure on it. Although his head felt pulverized, anger still took the top spot because he had failed. If his instincts were running in high gear knowing what that ugly bastard was up to would have surfaced in time. It also scared the hell out of him to contemplate the future. He finally dozed off, pondering how different this could have ended, with no one but himself to blame.
. . .
The investigators spent the remainder of the night conducting interrogations and took possession of Christina’s laptop computer, along with the computers and cellphones of anyone else who might have been involved. The interviews were fairly brief because they didn’t have any leads to pursue yet. At Christina’s place, considering her earnings they were surprised at how shoddy it was and it immediately raised a red flag. They took note of a new giant screen TV and stereo. When asked, she produced her previously-dated credit card receipts for them. They were also able to get a pretty good idea of her finances, in the process suspecting her credit card was maxed out. Daly asked her, “Does anyone else live here?”
“I have a boyfriend who occasionally spends some time here.”
“Is he also a pilot?”
“No. He’s a baggage handler for the same airline at LaGuardia.”
“Meaning he has access to the aircraft?”
“Yes. His name is David Bennedeto. But, what is this all about?”
Both cops jotted down his name. “All we can tell you is that a substantial amount of money aboard your aircraft is now missing.”
She laughed nervously. “How much? I sure could use some.”
“We can’t divulge that.”
“If you find out David’s got it tell him to give me some,” she joked, hoping this would demonstrate her non-involvement.
Walking to the car, Daly told Morganthaler to run a credit check on her first thing in the morning. “I’m willing to bet she’s hurting financially, which could provide a motive.”
“I was also surprised a captain would live in a dump like that.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions. Wait and see what turns up.”
They interviewed the flight attendants, all of whom also lived in Queens. Nothing new was unearthed, with all four seemingly in decent shape financially.
The final stop was Woody’s. Knowing you never really knew people fully and almost everyone had a small private room where they hid the truth about something, Morganthaler asked him, “Do you three pilots fraternize after work, visit each other’s homes or go out for drinks, stuff like that?”
Woody hesitated and finally answered, his face growing crimson. “I wouldn’t hang around with that bitch if she was the only other person on the face of...,” he snapped. But then he stopped and glanced meekly at the cops as though this statement might somehow incriminate him.
“Oh? Why not?” Daly immediately asked, liking what he heard because it might break open a tiny crack to squeeze information through.
Woody again hesitated and then answered with a question. “You guys have any lady cops who are your boss?”
Both men shook their heads. “But that doesn’t answer our question.”
“Yes it does. If you did, then maybe you’d understand. That broad and I have absolutely nothing in common other than the job.”
Although late, Woody’s interrogation continued a while longer and both cops came to the same conclusion. There was no way he would be involved in anything with Shepard.
. . .
While driving to work the following afternoon Erik tuned in 1010 WINS, a New York all-news radio station, but heard nothing about the heist. He also stopped at several newspaper boxes, fumbled with some coins and grabbed copies of Newsday, the Daily News and the NY Post. He quickly thumbed through them but again, nothing. Hopefully, robberies were like fast food, quick and forgettable.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
When the crew assembled the following day, the previous evening’s clouds were whipped away on stiff northwest winds carrying with them a taste of promise along with blue skies as polished as a new car. The stark white décor of the operations office normally made the surroundings seem cold, as this area was set up only with total efficiency in mind, but for Christina this felt like the first uplifting day in a long time. While signing the flight plan Christina asked Woody and Erik, “Did the two Dick Tracys, with the emphasis on the first name, visit you last night?” After both nodded their heads in the affirmative, a jovial Christina said she told them, other than the generator problem, nothing out of the ordinary occurred and both concurred. Christina’s voice was so buoyant Erik believed Juni must have contacted her.
After Woody disappeared to grab a coffee, the operations agent motioned Christina to the telephone. Hearing Juni’s voice she felt another shot of adrenaline. After moving the phone behind the counter out of earshot, she pointed to the mouthpiece and silently mouthed the letters J-u-n-i to Erik.
“I didn’t want to call your place because your phones are probably wired.”
“How much?” she hoarsely whispered, barely able to contain herself. “Just tell me how much.”
There was a sigh on the other end of the line. “Nothing. I had it, but someone hit me on the head and took it.”
Juni’s words could have been a solid punch to her jaw and she paused as she felt a cold finger of dread slice down her spine. “Whaddaya mean someone stole our money? You take me for a moron.”
Erik motioned with his palms for her to calm down. Her face was now crimson and he didn’t want to draw attention to her.
“I swear on my mother. It’s the truth. A guy hit me over the head with a bat and took it all.”
She could envision a double-dealing Juni pushing a huge boulder to the edge of a cliff. It was about to tumble off and squeeze the life out of her. “Go to hell. Where are you? I’ll come there and whack you again.” Breathing heavily, she stopped and rubbed her head to collect her thoughts. “Who was this guy? What did he look like? Have you ever seen him before? When and where did all this happen?”
Erik was standing far enough away that he couldn’t overhear, but Christina’s expression betrayed her angst. The office was bright, but her appearance spoke darkness.
“It happened right on the dock. I don’t know who he was. Did you or Erik mention anything to anyone? Someone had to know because there wasn’t another person in the entire marina other than this blotchy-faced, big guy. He had to be stalking me.”
“I can’t answer for Erik, but I never said a word, to anyone,” but her mind simultaneously raced back to David because he had briefly discussed the possibility they were carrying something valuable with her. And he’d later grilled her about what she’d uncovered. Did he somehow unearth what they were up to? Did she know any friends of David’s with a mottled complexion? “The only people I ever discussed this with were you and Erik.”
“I had four bags, probably over two million.”
“I don’t wanna hear that! Erik’s gonna be mad as hell when I tell him; unless he already knows ‘cause you’re in this rip-off together.” Christina inhaled deeply, attempting to calm herself. Her head felt like she’d been hit with a bat. She implored Juni, “Tell me this is some kind of sick joke.”
“I wish it were.”
“The cops have already questioned the crew.”
“Look. It’s no good talking over the phone. I never suspected anything like this could happen. It’s a big risk but we have to meet again. Let’s shoot for tonight after you guys get off work at the same place as last time. Drive in separate cars and make certain there’s no tail.”
“How the hell am I supposed to know if someone’s following me?”
“Drive a while. Then get o
ff the parkway and double back to somewhere, like the lot where you originally parked. Or get out of your car for a cup of coffee or gum, always watching for the same car with two guys who just look like cops. Keep checking in your rearview mirror for a Ford Crown Victoria ‘because that’s the unmarked cops drive. Change lanes or exit quickly and see if another car does the same. If you even think someone’s following, go home. Capisce?”
“Yeah, I capisce all right. Now you understand or capisce, as you like to say,” Christina growled. “We’ll be there and I’ll break the news to Erik, unless like I said, he already knows.” She wanted to slam down the receiver but didn’t.
. . .
“What bullshit are you feeding me? You take me for a goddamned idiot.” an incredulous Erik uttered when they were alone. “I didn’t like this from the get-go. But after putting up with so much crap, I’m entitled.”
“That’s all I know. Juni said he’ll fill us in tonight. He emphasized to make certain we’re not being tailed,” repeating his precautions.
“This is one sick joke you’re trying to pull.” Exactly who were the good and bad guys? “Are you two in this rip-off together?”