Flying Too Close to the Sun Read online

The cops interviewed Bill Francis and wanted to know why. He responded he had brought this to the attention of the tower supervisor, Tony Heinz who had ordered they be left off because he felt the weather would quickly drop back below the minimum, which it did within moments. The cops interviewed Heinz and he confirmed that. A quick check of Heinz’s finances showed nothing awry. He was married with a couple of older, married children and had a few bucks in the bank. During Heinz’s interrogation he mentioned Francis’ previous error and how he was faced with the loss of his job if he screwed up again and felt that was why he had asked to reactivate the sensors. Could Francis somehow be involved? His name was added to the suspect list.

  After consulting with the FBI’s aviation experts, the cops went to Shuttle Air with a request to pull the plane’s flight data and voice recorders to have them analyzed. The voice recorder had a constant erase feature going back only forty-five minutes, rendering it useless. But if the forward cargo door was opened might it show on the flight data recorder? This analysis was an expensive and time-consuming process. After assuring the airline they would pick up the tab, Shuttle Air sent the flight data recorder to Data Link, a high tech laboratory located just outside of New Orleans, where its contents were decoded and carefully analyzed. This jet, however, still had the older type of recorder installed and any door opening wouldn’t show up provided the aircraft was still on the ground. Only if the door opened once airborne would that be indicated and there were no irregularities evident other than the generator problem.

  Daly raised the possibility perhaps someone could have come over in a boat and somehow managed to access the cargo bin without anyone the wiser. He called Boston FAA officials, identified himself and got the latitude and longitude coordinates for the departure end of runway 22 Right and then contacted Department of Defense officials to ascertain if a global positioning device was used to navigate to or from any location with those approximate coordinates on the night in question. It would have been only a short distance, so it should be easily recognizable. The DOD officials checked the date and time for six hours before and after the flight departed, but came up empty-handed. No coordinates were selected other than for flights relying upon GPS and all of those matched the exact numbers for their departure gates.

  The increasingly frustrated investigators concluded if any pilots were involved it must have been Shepard because the captain should be aware of everything. Her alimony, high credit card balances and child-support payments might provide the motive. Maybe she stayed in the background while another person carried it out? They called and spoke with her exes, both of whom supplied credible alibis for the night in question. The cops checked them out and were satisfied with both. Each ex spoke about her with more than a hint of disdain in their voice.

  They had Shuttle Air pull up Shepard’s computer records and a red flag was immediately raised when it was discovered she had rummaged around in a restricted area of the airline’s mainframe. This potential breakthrough got their adrenalin flowing and the cops wanted to question her further. Although unable to squeeze her more without other still-missing details, they drove to LaGuardia and caught her off guard as she sat in a remote corner of the airport coffee shop prior to her first flight. Daly grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down right next to her, blocking any exit, while Morganthaler sat across the table, both feeling they might finally have come up with a solid lead.

  “Did you recently snoop in an area of your Company’s computer where you weren’t authorized?” a somber Daly asked, grimacing after burning his mouth on the steaming, foul-tasting brew, hoping she would deny it.

  Although the question was not unexpected, Christina felt the cold finger of fear poke at her psyche. Outwardly composed, but inwardly nervous, she calmly replied, “Yes. Once,” wondering if they could see through her façade?

  “Why?”

  “Because my final flight was being delayed almost every night and as captain, I wanted to know why.” She hesitated, a solemn look on her face. Her plan all along was to put them on the defensive if this arose. “Please confirm your positions allow you to be privy to what I am about to say because it concerns airline security. Are you?”

  “We’ll ask the questions,” Daly replied, “but the answer is yes.”

  “If I find out later you’re not, you’ll have hell to pay,” she countered, attempting to display confidence she wasn’t certain she had. “As required by TSA and FAA regulations, each night I received notification an armed sky marshal would be riding in the cabin and we were being delayed until he boarded. But we weren’t supposed to incur a delay for that reason unless there was a known terrorist threat and if that was the case, I was also supposed to be informed. Yet no one said a word. So, I checked in the computer after work and discovered the reason,” she responded as nonchalantly as possible, while looking Morganthaler directly in the eye.

  Morganthaler responded with gray eyes as cold as steel, “So you knew about the armed guard and the money?”

  “Only after I discovered a Treasury agent was doubling as the sky marshal, which explained the delays and was all I cared about. The rest didn’t concern me.”

  “Let me repeat myself. You did know there was money on board your flight. Correct?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why didn’t you previously mention this?”

  “Because it was strictly a security issue and didn’t have anything to do with your supposedly missing money.”

  The cops just stared blankly at each other. They had hit another stone wall.

  “Who else lives with you?” Morganthaler continued, grasping for something, anything.

  She sighed. “Like I told you, I have a friend who’s a baggage handler and he stays over occasionally.” When asked, she voluntarily provided additional information about David, including the gym where he worked out in Manhattan. After the cops left Christina immediately called his cellphone she was paying for, but there was no answer. The phone was probably in his locker and she didn’t want to leave a voice message.

  . . .

  The two policemen drove to the upscale PUMP health club in midtown Manhattan and parked their unmarked in front of a fire hydrant. Daly placed his official FBI business tag on the dashboard, hoping they wouldn’t be ticketed. After showing their credentials, the clerk pointed out David, who was bench pressing a lot of weight.

  “Mr. Bennedeto?” Daly asked the powerfully built man.

  “Who are you?” David answered, continuing to lift.

  Both men took out their shields. “I’m chief FBI inspector John Daly and this is Port Authority Police Sergeant Frank Morganthaler. Stop what you’re doing and take a seat over here,” Daly said, pointing to a small table in an area where shakes and protein drinks were dispensed. After David re-racked the weights he became visibly antsy. Maybe the cops wanted to question him about the missing baggage items?

  Both policemen immediately took note of his edginess. Daly’s innards involuntarily tightened and his cop’s sixth sense, which was really a sharply-polished talent of close observation and interpretation, honed in. The cops stood while David was seated and kept his eyes on the table, not looking directly at either law enforcement officer. Daly read him like a polygraph machine. “Where were you on Wednesday night the 10th around 9 P.M.?”

  His mind raced. When had he pilfered the ring? “I, uh, think I was working.”

  “What do you mean you think you were working? Were you or not? Just to refresh your memory, it was raining lightly that night and we wanna know exactly what you were doing.”

  “Yes. I worked at LaGuardia airport where I’m employed as a baggage handler for Shuttle Air. My shift runs ‘til around 10 P.M. when the final flights arrive.”

  “Can you prove that?”


  “I’m paid by the hour. The airline has a record of all of my time down to the minute.”

  “We’re not referring to an official record. Are there any fellow workers who can vouch for you?” a frowning Daly asked, knowing it was likely the heist didn’t occur at LaGuardia as the jet never stopped until at the gate. After that, no unauthorized persons were near the forward cargo hold. But something was definitely amiss here as this guy’s behavior said he was lying or withholding something.

  As his mind started to clear, David recalled the last time he lifted any jewelry was before the 10th. This must concern something else. Finally looking up, he said, “There were a number of people I worked with for the entire time.”

  “Write down their names,” Morganthaler demanded, handing him a pad and pen. David jotted down the first and last names of three people, one a supervisor and two other co-workers who could verify his presence.

  “You know Captain Christina Shepard?”

  David glanced from one cop to the other, still avoiding prolonged eye contact. “Why do you ask?”

  “Let’s get something straight, right now. We’ll ask the fucking questions; that is unless you would rather do this at the stationhouse?” Daly said.

  “Go ahead and ask,” David replied. Both cops noticed beads of sweat on his forehead that weren’t there before.

  “Are you living with her?”

  “What goes on between us is our business. I didn’t know it was a crime to live with another consenting adult,” now a more confident, almost sneering David replied. “I don’t think it’s proper for you to be asking me this question.”

  Morganthaler was pissed. “Not proper? Oh really? A serious crime was committed, and—”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about any of that shit,” David interrupted. “All I do is slam bags at the airline, go to school and work out at here—”

  “Shut the hell up,” a now red-faced Morganthaler told him. “I’m tired of listening to you. You have another address other than Shepard’s where we can reach you? Or like I said, we can get the information in a more formal setting? You’ll also have the right to an attorney there.”

  The word attorney immediately got David’s attention. “Yes. I have a small place I rent in Brooklyn,” he gulped, not wanting to go anywhere near a police station or lawyer. “I sleep there sometimes, usually when I work out late. But listen, Shepard doesn’t know about that and—”

  “Give us the address and phone number,” Daly ordered. He was losing patience with this asshole. “Do you use email and the internet? Have a cellphone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jot down your cell number, your internet provider and your email address.”

  David scribbled all the requested information, stating he used a jointly owned laptop computer with Shepard for the internet.

  “You don’t have your own?”

  “No. I use hers for school.”

  “We’ll find out if you’re lying.”

  “I swear. I’m not.” He whined.

  “You’d better not be.” The two policemen looked suspiciously at him and handed him their cards. “Rest assured we’ll be speaking with you again, shortly. Can we assume you’ll either be here, at work, Shepard’s or at this other dump?” Morganthaler added, knowing the lousy section in Brooklyn where it was located.

  “Yes,” a now contrite David replied.

  After leaving the gym Daly commented, “I do not like that sleazebag. He’s mixed up in something he’s trying to hide, so we’ll keep a close eye on him. Why would Shepard hang out with a dirtbag like him?”

  “I have no idea, but I agree with your opinion.”

  David hurriedly changed into street clothing and sped to Christina’s. A haggard-looking Christina was lying on the couch, watching television. “How was your workout?” she softly asked.

  “Don’t give me your bullshit,” he immediately replied in a high-pitched tone. “What the hell have you been up to?”

  “What do you mean?” a stunned Christina asked, standing up.

  “Two fucking cops paid me a visit at the gym over something.”

  “Maybe it had to do with your stupid luggage scam?” she replied.

  “I doubt it, since one was FBI,” he replied, poking her hard on the shoulder with his finger. “I think you stole something off your plane.”

  “That hurt,” she said rubbing her shoulder. “Keep your goddamned hands off me. What’re the steroids you’re taking making you crazy? For your information, you’re messing with interstate commerce, so the FBI would be involved with your baggage shit. I tried to warn you, but—”

  “This probably has something to do with the guy you told me about,” he screamed. “You got something. Was it money?”

  She turned away and when he spun her around, she was crying. “My epilepsy symptoms have returned even though I’m taking medication. Probably because of all the stress you pile on me. Don’t add to it.”

  “Let me see if I’ve got this right. You expect me to feel sorry for you over some bullshit disease. What do you take me for, a fuckin’ moron?” Without saying another word he stormed out, slamming the door with a loud crash.

  . . .

  Christina went to the phone and dialed Mimi’s number in Minnesota. The time had arrived. She had to forge a closer relationship with Laurel. She also had to relay the bad news about next semester’s tuition. How would Laurel react? The phone was picked up on the second ring. “Hi, Mimi, it’s Christina,” she said, trying to sound chipper but not doing a very good job.

  “Oh. Hello, Mrs. Shep, er, Christina.”

  “I’d like to speak with Laurel.”

  Mimi hesitated, finally sighing, “Hold on. I’ll get her.”

  She could picture Laurel and at the sound of her voice, Christina’s spirits would be lifted as though sunshine had just broken through the clouds at thirty-five thousand feet.

  “Hello.”

  “How are you, honey? It’s your mother.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Did you follow my advice and see a neurologist?”

  “Yes. He mentioned studies show epilepsy could be genetic. Doctors have recently isolated the genes that might be responsible so he did a blood test and I don’t have any of the genetic markers, meaning everything should be fine.”

  Christina sensed a common bond rapidly slipping away.

  “He also said I shouldn’t lose any sleep worrying.”

  Christina found herself at a loss for words. “That’s great,” she managed. “I also have a bit of bad news. I’m frequently getting partial complex seizures, which means I can’t take a chance and fly. So I won’t be able to come up with next term’s tuition.”

  “After you told me about your epilepsy I expected that might happen, so I went to see the dean. I explained the details of the situation without mentioning your disease and asked if the school could help.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Because my grades were so good, they offered me a full scholarship for the remainder of my undergraduate work and will assist me in securing one for law school.”

  “Oh, I’m so happy for you.” Fortunately, Laurel couldn’t see the frown on her face.

  “I have to be honest,” Laurel continued, “my feelings toward you are ambivalent. I don’t dislike you, but really don’t know you either. I do appreciate your telling me about what happened with my father. Although we don’t know where we’re headed when we depart this life it’s nice to hear the details about the arrival.” After a slight hesitation she continued, “But you walked out of my life and now b
arge back in expecting me to embrace you. I can’t do that, at least not yet. Mimi is the only mother I’ve ever known and loved. It will take me time to see if I can adjust and feel the same way about you.”

  Christina mustered all the strength she could and told her, “I want you to know while you’re deciding I’ll always be here for you.” Deafening silence came from the other end, followed by a frosty goodbye, which perhaps incorrectly sounded final. This meant Christina was at the one place she feared the most, completely alone. She went to bed but even after taking two strong sleeping pills couldn’t sleep. Everything in her life was crashing down around her. Why could she never catch a break?

  CHAPTER FORTY

  As Erik’s August first deadline approached and no check arrived, the bank manger phoned the airline executive offices and was eventually routed to O’Brien. After a lengthy discussion the bank granted an additional fifteen-day grace period, meaning Erik would have to come up with the entire amount by that time.

  . . .

  Daly secured a secret court order allowing him to keep tabs on Erik’s, Christina’s and David’s finances. At Morganthaler’s insistence he also went to a friendly Federal Judge in the Manhattan Eastern District Court and got permission to wire Christina’s and Erik’s home phones. Everything they laid their hands on showed Erik was flat broke and the pilot involvement theory began running into strong headwinds. This became even more evident after the FBI’s examination of the pilots’ home phones and computers showed they had never contacted each other. They anxiously awaited Erik’s new deadline, as the potential loss of his job might force a move.

  . . .

  Daly took all the known facts and shook them down while alone in his office, surrounded only by the FBI’s reference books and Manual of Rules and Regulations, better known as the Big Manual. As he sat behind his intimidating desk, he was perplexed. Although the T and L sheets pointed to the flight, his hypothesis changed once he looked at the evidence garnered thus far. The fact Shepard and Preis were virtually penniless and that Montgomery saw or heard nothing meant things pointed elsewhere, in another direction. But where? Maybe it was during the transport or counting process, with an insider knowing how to fool the system? The torn-up newspapers indicated New York, although the lock purchases were closer to Boston. Daly knew he had to keep an open mind on everything. He reviewed the videos of the counting process a number of times, but they showed nothing out of the ordinary.