Flying Too Close to the Sun Page 21

  “I don’t have a watch, but it must be a little after ten.”

  Remembering his own, he looked down at its luminescent dial showing a fuzzy 10:25.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Anthony. Anthony Conte, sir.”

  Juni looked off in the direction of his car, thanked and dismissed him. As he staggered toward the ramp, he saw the lad still watching, so he gave a hopefully reassuring wave. The last thing he wanted was for an ambulance or the police to be summoned because they would ask questions he couldn’t answer. Slowly making his way up the gangway, the minute he saw them though the soggy mist the pain was forgotten as his keys protruding from the car’s trunk lock told the story. Juni hoped, but knew better as he peered inside and saw the wetsuit, praying the money was still there. Seeing no bags or cash, the throbbing in his head returned with a vengeance; not only the duffels, but also the remaining borrowed money that had been in his briefcase were gone. He looked around, but the lot was deserted. He put the keys in his pocket and had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he stumbled his way back down to the Pride of the Navy. There was no sign of the other duffels. With his body feeling somewhere above sheer agony he returned to the car, somehow remembering to remove the cardboard from the marina lock. What would he tell Erik and Christina? How would he break the news to his brother-in-law? What the hell was he going to do?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  It was late and United States Treasury employee Sara Jones, a young, single parent, hurried to finish up her nighttime job. She disdained the cold, fluorescent-lit government building where she worked and was anxious to return to the snug environ of her two-bedroom apartment in Washington Heights where her young children were waiting with a baby-sitter, hopefully watching them closely. The attractive dark-haired, emerald-eyed young lady detested the walk from the US Treasury building, located on New York’s Sixth Avenue to the Eighth Avenue subway line for the fifteen-minute journey to her place. Being required to follow the Federal government’s strict dress guidelines meant wearing a skirt or dress. Most nights it was like running a gauntlet while walking past the derelict buildings dotting the area, as the lowlifes who called them home hooted foul things. But there was no choice because she couldn’t afford many cab rides on her GS-11 salary.

  She placed a key in one bag’s padlock to empty its contents, scan and record the bills serial numbers and to confirm the amounts, as she had done thousands of times before. But this time the lock wouldn’t budge. She immediately summoned her supervisor Jim Hennesy, a career civil servant who she believed never had an original thought in his entire life. “Something’s wrong with this lock. My key won’t open it.”

  Hennesy, whose glasses were so thick she didn’t understand how he could see anything, stood over her, looking down with disdain. He confidently inserted his master key in what turned out to be a futile, almost comical attempt to unlock it. He tried the same thing on the seven remaining bags and only four opened. A now ashen-faced Hennesy hiked up his pants waistband, normally near his shoulders even further, and hollered at Sara, although she was sitting right next to him, “Call inspector Hank Selac at extension 552 and get him down here—now!”

  . . .

  Fitful sleep finally came, but a startled Erik was awakened on the couch by the doorbell ringing. The only other noise was the TV, with some infomercial stating why the viewer should buy a product to promote hair growth. His first brain wave questioned why would Juni come to the house? Squinting, he turned on the dim hallway light and clad in his boxers apprehensively opened the door with veils of sleep still clinging to his eyes, keeping them partially closed. Confronted by two burly men dressed in ties and jackets, a quick glance back at the clock showed it was 1:30. The street was deep in shadows and sopping August heat, with the breathless darkness combining to make it all seem surreal.

  “Are you Erik Preis?” the obviously better fed of the two asked, holding up a gold-colored badge in the faint light. These were the vultures who would be circling, looking for the guilty carcass. Although Erik knew they would be coming and soon, he still felt unprepared. As the skin on the back of his neck tingled with gooseflesh he suddenly felt more exhausted than ever before and only wanted to get this over with. Turning around, he saw both parents peering down from the upstairs hallway.

  “Yes, sir,” he replied with a gulp, feeling the blood rush to his head and the roses in his cheeks involuntarily blossoming.

  “I’m FBI Chief Inspector John Daly and this is Sergeant Frank Morganthaler of the Port Authority Police. May we come in?”

  “Of course. I’m sorry,” he said nodding his head and gesturing with his hand. The two men seemed to bring more of the heat and humidity inside with them. Erik estimated the gray-haired, pot-bellied FBI man whose jowls had lost the battle against gravity to be about fifty-five. The younger, fortyish sergeant was built like an inverted pyramid and had a pair of distrusting ice cold cop’s eyes that seemingly knew your darkest secrets at a single glance. They shook hands, with Erik surprised the older Daly had a vise for a grip, while the other guy’s felt more like a wet mop.

  What hit Daly as they stepped into the tastefully decorated house was the unique scent: more accurately, the essence. This caused him to recall a girlfriend from the distant past. Johanna Schumacher’s parents had emigrated from Austria and this place had the same aroma. It was a unique fragrance far different from an American household, an alluring combination of European soap with a tiny, almost insignificant hint of a human. Not body odor per se, just a human body. This caused erotic flashbacks of Johanna, his bewitching, blond schoen Fraulein of a lifetime ago. Thinking back, he could actually feel body and soul stir. She had done great things to and for him. Too bad his wife, Nancy no longer had the hots for him, now generating a different type of body heat, the elevated temps of menopause. No doubt the same condition had caused her to complain loudly when their telephone sounded while sleeping, summoning him to this case. All they ever did in bed now was sleep, leaving only yesterday’s memories to evoke how things had once been. Now, he was married only to the FBI. Where was Johanna? What did she look like today?

  Erik’s words snapped him back to the present. “Excuse me. It’s late and I was out like a light.” Leaving the sleep behind he added, “Let me put on some decent clothes.” Running up the steps like a benched basketball player sent into a close game, Erik hurried past his parents as he sprinted to his bedroom. He managed to calm himself enough to slip on a loose-fitting pair of blue jeans and plain white tee. He descended the steps two at a time like someone anxious to help, hoping this wasn’t lost on the cops. “Sorry to keep you waiting. What can I do for you?” Erik cheerfully offered between breaths, even though there was a chill in the pit of his stomach. Was there a telling flaw or did the cops picture him as a calm, cool pilot? Truth be known, he was sick with anxiety and his heart was pounding like a jackhammer. Recalling Juni’s words, he tried to think like a cop. But those thoughts went by the wayside as he couldn’t help but wonder if the cuffs would go on if they even simply thought he was involved? “Please,” he offered, gesturing toward the couch, while he took a seat on another chair. Both policemen pulled out small notebooks, their eyes honed in so intently, Erik felt glued in place by their laser-like stares.

  It was previously agreed Daly would conduct this interrogation. Morganthaler removed a small, portable tape recorder from his shirt pocket and placed it on the table, explaining, “This device will record what’s said so we can review it later. Is that acceptable?” They were using the opportunity to lock in his story and would go back, listening for any inconsistencies, knowing many cases turned on a minute detail, perhaps a seemingly inconsequential item during the initial interview. Listening later might provide the key.

  “Sure.”

  “Would you please state
your full name and address for the record?” Erik complied and Daly continued. “Shuttle Air informed us you were a member of the cockpit crew on flight 1540 tonight from Boston to New York,” he somberly began, ladders of wrinkles over his deeply furrowed eyebrows. Seemingly looking at a sheet of paper he was holding at arms length, he was actually looking over it, directly into Erik’s eyes trying to pick up any subtleties. Years of experience said the eyes always told the truth.

  “Yes. Is something the matter?” Erik quickly added, while looking directly into Daly’s blue eyes and blinking, hoping he conveyed green-eyed innocence. “Did I do something wrong?”

  Ignoring his question, Daly asked, “Did you observe anything you might classify as strange or out of the ordinary?”

  Just then, Joe scurried downstairs clad in his pajamas and bathrobe. Erik was happy for the diversion when he demanded, “What is going on?”

  “I don’t know, Dad. These men are police officers.”

  “Police!”

  There were no introductions and the elder Preis’ face was as red as a Coke can. He mumbled incoherently and sat on the far end of the couch, glaring. Nursing a hangover, the repulsive stench of stale whiskey enveloped him and floated throughout the room like a swarm of buzzing flies alighting on everyone present. “I will stay here,” he announced.

  Daly wanted to question Erik alone but continued, ignoring the old man. But if he interrupted he would be told to leave. “For example, did you see anyone snooping around the plane or notice anything you might classify as uncommon or out of the ordinary?”

  Ignoring his father and still looking directly at Daly, Erik hesitated for a moment and then his face brightened. “There was something.”

  The FBI man glanced at Morganthaler who shifted slightly in his seat as if anticipating vital information.

  “We had a mechanical problem, difficulty with a generator. The captain and I resolved it.” Without waiting for a response he continued, “I haven’t worked for Shuttle Air very long, but I have flown that trip before and except for the generator and some poor weather, everything else was pretty routine.”

  “Tell me about the generator.”

  Erik repeated the story he’d gone over in his mind seemingly a thousand times hoping it would appear spontaneous, not wanting to come across like an actor trapped in a bad play. “To conserve fuel, Shuttle Air’s standard procedure is to wait until just before receiving takeoff clearance to start the final engine. On the 727 it’s the center, or number two. When we got to the departure end of 22 Right, the runway we were using for takeoff, there was difficulty with the number two engine generator. Its speed is constant and is governed by a constant speed drive or CSD, and it wouldn’t go on line…”

  “Whoa. Slow down. I’m no pilot. To me the cockpit is just a bunch of dials and gauges.”

  “Sorry. Each engine has its own generator providing electrical power to different items like air conditioning units, hydraulic pumps and the like. There’s a maximum allowable electrical load for the entire plane, so when one isn’t working, it puts added stress on the ones that are.”

  “Okay. I think I understand better now.” Daly hesitated. “If one was broken, why didn’t you return to get it fixed?”

  “We might have because I don’t think the captain would have wanted to take off in crummy weather without it. But resetting a circuit breaker got it working and we departed.”

  “How long did that take?”

  “I dunno. Maybe a couple of minutes..?”

  “You certain about the time?”

  “Yeah, only a few minutes, at the most.”

  Daly wrote something in his notebook and asked, “Is there a portable phone in the house? Do you use a cellphone? A computer?”

  “There’s a portable and I also have an old laptop computer upstairs.”

  “May I see the portable?”

  Erik took the white Panasonic phone from its cradle on the end table and handed it to Daly, who passed it to Morganthaler. He took out a pen and copied down the numbers and times of the received and dialed calls shown as he scrolled though the last twenty-five numbers.

  “May I also have your cell number and the name of your cellphone and internet provider?”

  “I don’t have a cellphone or access to the internet.” Looking meekly at his father he added, “My Dad doesn’t want me tying up the phone line with the computer.”

  “May we take your laptop? It will be returned to you in a few days.”

  “Sure.” Erik went back upstairs and handed them to Morganthaler.

  “We’d also like to look inside your car?”

  “Okay. It’s the blue Chevy parked at the curb. It’s, well, kind of dirty because I haven’t have a chance to wash it.” He went into the kitchen and returned with the keys.

  “Thank you, Mr. Preis,” Daly stood and again extended his hand. Based on his experience and internal lie detector he liked the kid. But he also knew a good actor might beat him. “Here’s my card. We’ll probably have some additional questions for you later...oh, and one more thing. On the 727 is it possible to access the forward cargo compartment from the cockpit?”

  A truly surprised Erik replied. “Why, no. That’s impossible. But why would anyone—?”

  “Sorry to have awakened you.”

  Erik hesitated, thinking he should appear curious. “What’s this about? Did something happen? Did I do something wrong?”

  “All I’m at liberty to say is a substantial amount of money being transported on your flight is missing.”

  “How much?”

  “I can’t divulge that.”

  “I hope you get it back.”

  “We will.”

  Once the door closed Joe began his grilling. “What are you mixed up in?” he loudly demanded, sweating profusely, a hangover sweat.

  “Nothing,” Erik replied, holding up his hand trying to keep the putrid breath away.

  “You are lying.”

  “So you say...”

  At that moment the doorbell rang. Daly returned Erik’s keys, thanked him and left.

  When the door closed Ursula Preis rushed downstairs clad in a light fabric pink nightgown, with hair pulled back and pinned in a bun. “Come to bed, Josef,” she said gesturing toward the bedroom. “Erik didn’t know why they came here.”

  “He knows.”

  “For God’s sake, he was sound asleep on the—”

  “I don’t care what he thinks. If I had money, I’d get the hell away from you,” Erik yelled over his shoulder at Joe while heading to his room.

  Once ensconced in their bedroom and speaking in German, Ursula pleaded, “Why are you so hard on Erik? You should treat him with respect.”

  “Don’t give me any respect crap. You know he’s been very different since he was born, doesn’t resemble me and is too Americanized. His values stink and because of you I don’t even know if he’s my son. Now, he’s involved in something that brought the police. What will the neighbors think?”

  “It’s late. The neighbors won’t even know,” adding with a wave of her hand. “He has a good job. Why would he be mixed up with anything dishonest? And as I’ve told you many times he is our son.”

  “And, I do not want to discuss this any more,” Joe shouted.

  Lying in bad, after overhearing his parents’ conversation, thoughts from jubilant to terrifying raced through Erik’s brain. The joy and fear caused a sweat with a distinctive odor. He would indulge himself with a long shower in the morning. His thoughts turned to Juni, who probably got the money, but didn’t want to take a chance on calling. Good thing the phone
didn’t ring while the cops were there. He pictured what his share looked like, mentally stacking the money on the spotless floor. Perhaps now he could seriously consider asking Carol to marry him? She was the only person he’d ever shared that indefinable bond with.

  . . .

  Walking through the mist to their unmarked vehicle, the cops concluded Preis seemed to give honest answers. “It was a good idea to question the pilots first, especially the kid. The young ones are usually a lot easier to trip up,” Morganthaler offered.

  “My gut says he’s not the kind to get caught up in this stuff,” Daly responded in a soft voice normally reserved for kids. “He’s got a good job and was sound asleep, not the signs of someone involved in a serious crime. But there was lots of friction between him and the old man.”

  “Like millions of others,” Morganthaler interjected.

  “I guess..?”

  The two cops meandered in silence back to the FBI blue Ford Victoria, deep in thought, knowing the hours immediately following the crime were crucial. As a Port Authority cop, Morganthaler was somewhat accustomed to working in the middle of the night, usually on drug busts at one of the New York or Jersey airports the PA police oversaw. Actually, he would do most anything to get out of the dingy Port Authority police station at LaGuardia, a faceless, grimy building where you froze in winter and cooked in summer. No doubt he’d bring the streetwise smarts to this investigation, while in his opinion Daly existed in the la-la land of the Feds, a desk jockey, paper pusher who never got into the down and dirty of an assignment. But this case was intriguing, even working under Daly, the lead investigator with proprietary jurisdiction. Referred to by other cops as the big G’s or suits, the FBI people were rarely awakened and required to dress in the compulsory jacket and tie and work all night. But justice never slept, meaning they still had to drive to Queens, then Jersey. It was ironic they would be up all night yet the first person they interrogated was sound asleep and was probably now back in slumberland.