Plane in the Lake Page 11

  Chapter Twelve

  As if Ed Stankowski dying yesterday hadn’t already cast enough of a pall over my morning, Billy Likens called with news that the FBI has invited him and Rick Hogan in for “a chat” today. Right. Like the FBI invites people in to shoot the breeze. Something potentially unwelcome is afoot. I’d gotten the contact information for the agent who phoned Billy, then gave the woman a call to let her know that either I’d be joining the party or there would be no party at all.

  So, here we are late in the afternoon at the FBI Field Office on Roosevelt Road in downtown Chicago. Compared with the interview rooms at Cedar Heights PD, the room they’ve deposited us in isn’t too bad—still Spartan, but a little larger and with somewhat newer institutional furniture. It also smells clean, a nice change from the lingering sweat and fear that have seeped into every corner of the Cedar Heights PD interrogation chamber. Yet it’s still depressingly drab. I’m not pleased to be here and am in a pissy mood.

  The vibe Agents Johnson and King are throwing off isn’t improving my disposition. Johnson is big and burly, with a pug face that looks as if maybe he’s gone a few rounds too many in the boxing ring with other big, burly guys who had better boxing skills. King is a lithe Black woman with close-cropped hair and a simmering anger that threatens to explode at any moment. They’re seated across the table from my clients. I’m seated a little off to one side of Billy. One end of the table is pushed up tightly against the eggshell-white wall.

  Ed Stankowski’s face keeps popping into my head, which prompts an overwhelming sense of regret, responsibility, and fury. Compartmentalize, Valenti. Whatever the hell is going down here requires my undivided attention. There’ll be time to resume mourning Ed at the end of our FBI visit.

  “So, the aircraft,” Agent King says to Rick after the preliminaries are out of the way. “What can you tell us about it?”

  Rick, who has arrived dressed in his work overalls, stares back at her in confusion.

  The stone-faced agent studies Rick as if he’s perhaps a little on the dull side. “Make? Model? What do you know?”

  Why in hell is the agent testing Rick’s knowledge of the aircraft? If King is trying to knock us off balance right from the get-go, she’s off to a good start.

  Rick sounds a little annoyed when he answers, “Cessna 210N. Built in 1979. Continental 10-520L fuel-injected engine that puts out three hundred horsepower or so. Purchased by Windy City Sky Tours for one hundred and forty-five thousand dollars.”

  The agent’s eyes shift to Billy, who tossed on a pair of faded blue jeans and a red plaid shirt before hopping in the car with Rick. “That sound about right to you?”

  “It does,” Billy agrees.

  King’s steely eyes pass between Billy and Rick. “Were there any engine issues that you’re aware of?”

  “None,” Rick replies in the same moment that Billy shakes his head and says, “Nope.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Structural deficiencies?”

  Billy is shaking his head and preparing to reply when I reach over and clamp my hand on his forearm. “Don’t answer.”

  I lock eyes with Agent King. “This isn’t an ‘information session,’ Agent King. You’re conducting an interrogation without Mirandizing my clients.”

  She gazes back impassively and doesn’t deny it.

  “This is beneath the FBI,” I say while glaring at the agents.

  Instead of backing off, Johnson poses a question to Rick that comes right out of left field. “Tell us about the circumstances leading up to your liver transplant, Mr. Hogan.”

  This smells like a setup. Rick was away from work for a few months earlier in the year for the surgery. I mimic a zipping motion across my lips, hold my hands up in a timeout gesture, and turn to the agents. “I need a minute with my clients.”

  “Sure,” Johnson says agreeably. “We’ll step out.”

  “No,” I reply sharply. “We’ll step out, thank you. While we’re gone, I suggest you revisit the FBI manual to refresh your understanding of Miranda rights.”

  Once we’re out in the hallway, safely away from any recording devices that might be running inside the interview room, I look up and down the hallway of closed doors before I turn to Rick. “Is there something I should know? Drinking issues they’re going to unearth?”

  “Nothing that isn’t bullshit,” Billy retorts angrily.

  Rick’s flinty eyes narrow. “What the hell does that mean, Tony?”

  “I’m just doing my job and trying to figure out what the hell is going on here, guys,” I reply while holding my hands up in a peacemaking gesture. I tilt my head back toward the interview room. “Those two are gnawing at a bone someone has tossed their way. Worse, they’re not affording you your basic legal rights. So far as I know, that’s not the FBI’s usual style. I’ll deal with that later. For now, I need to know if there’s something to what they’re digging into. Is there?”

  Rick and Billy exchange a glance that sets off alarm bells.

  “Out with it,” I say firmly. “There can be no surprises.”

  “Our insurance company heard allegations from someone suggesting that Rick’s liver transplant was the result of alcoholism,” Billy says. “Our policy just came up for renewal and they canceled it. They told us that Rick’s supposed drinking is evidence of poor character and that we were negligent by hiding it from them.”

  “Anything to it?” I ask Rick.

  He shakes his head. I hold his gaze for a long moment to satisfy myself that I’m getting the truth. He stares back resolutely. So what is this about? I roll several possibilities through my mind. If the insurance company is claiming that it canceled because of a fraudulent application that didn’t disclose alcoholism, I can imagine the insurer trying to skirt liability claims arising from a legal claim of responsibility for the crash. These guys will be royally screwed if that scenario plays out. Where will Penelope and I get the money to go after the insurance company if it comes to that? It would cost many thousands of dollars to take on the insurer, and these two probably don’t have more than a few thousand lying around between them—if that. The color drains from their faces when I explain the possibility of their being found liable without insurance coverage. I cross my arms over my chest. “True or not, why the hell didn’t you tell me about this?”

  “Because it’s BS!” Billy shoots back.

  “And who might have put that bug in the insurance company’s ear?” I ask. “Did you ask yourselves that?”

  Their blank expressions are answer enough.

  “Figure it out,” I suggest. Then I wait.

  “The insurance company knew about the transplant,” Rick finally says. “We made a disability claim on our key man disability policy for the time I was off. The same company holds all of our company policies.”

  “Yet they didn’t question things when you made the claim?” I ask.

  They shake their heads.

  “Which suggests someone tipped them off to the alcoholism possibility fairly recently. Who might do that?”

  They exchange a bewildered look.

  Windy City, that’s who. I drop my shoulders and sigh heavily. “Okay, let’s set that aside and see what else our FBI friends have on their minds. Don’t answer a single question unless I give you the okay. Understood?”

  They nod before I lead them back to the interview room.

  My eyes cover both agents when we resume our seats. “Miranda?” I ask pointedly.

  After King belatedly reads Rick and Billy their rights, I place my hands on the table and eyeball the agents. “Nothing said to this point counts for shit. Whatever recording you’re making of this better make note of that. Understood?”

  Agent Johnson nods reluctantly.

  “All right, then,” I continue. “We’re done with the transplant topic. What else is on your minds?”

  Johnson turns his attention to Billy. “The subject aircraft was due for a hundred-hour inspection in August. Was that done and, if so, w
hen?”

  “Go ahead,” I tell Billy.

  “I don’t have an exact date off the top of my head, but it was done around the middle of the month,” he replies.

  “You sure about that?” the agent asks with a hint of skepticism.

  Billy looks confused by the line of questioning. “Yeah.”

  The agents remain silent, as if they’re feeding Billy plenty of rope to tie around his neck if he’s so inclined.

  “We gave a copy of the inspection report to the NTSB,” he tells them.

  “Yeah, we’ve seen it,” King says dismissively. “What about a billing statement to Windy City Sky Tours for the work?”

  If they’ve seen the paperwork, why are they questioning it?

  Billy and Rick exchange a look. I recall Ben Larose mentioning that an NTSB briefing mentioned a wing strut showing signs of failure, but hadn’t the spokesman also said they were unable to determine if the strut had failed before the plane hit the water? I probably should have explored that in more depth when Larose first told us about it. If I had, I might be better prepared for what I’m hearing now. I don’t like where this seems to be leading, but I want to know exactly where the FBI is going with this line of questioning. I decide to let it play out and nod at Billy to answer.

  “We sent one,” he says.

  “Have you got a copy of their payment?” King asks.

  Billy frowns and looks to me. I nod again. There’s a note of exasperation in his voice when he replies, “No, we always have to chase them for payment.”

  “We’re lucky if they pay any sooner than sixty days,” Rick adds. “As if we can afford to float credit to a bunch of millionaires on a regular basis.”

  My mind has shot ahead during this exchange. Is someone suggesting R & B is guilty of fraudulent record keeping? Is that why the FBI was called in? The questioning is suggestive of neglect or worse. My clients either said something to the NTSB investigators that raised suspicions, or someone else has fed them information that has. Billy and Rick are naive enough to blindly trust their business partners to do the right thing, because it wouldn’t occur to them to do otherwise, but it’s looking as if someone has buried a knife deeply into their backs. The most likely culprits are the principals of Windy City and/or AAA Avgas, undoubtedly counseled by lawyers every bit as ethically challenged as they are. Unfortunately for my clients, they’re represented by a lawyer who doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground when it comes to countering legal chicanery on this scale.

  The FBI agents exchange a look that suggests they have whatever they were after. I decide it’s time to terminate our little chat and get the hell out of here before one of us says—or neglects to say—something that might come back to haunt us. The agents look smug as they see us out.

  The ramifications of the past half hour unnerve me. The prospect of Rick and Billy being found liable for millions of dollars in a lawsuit was a daunting-enough prospect. The added concern of not having insurance coverage to cover the cost has come as an unwelcome shock. That said, at the end of the day, the lawsuit is all about money. The threat of Billy and Rick facing criminal charges in the deaths of five people is a problem of a whole other magnitude. Is that where the FBI is heading?

  Chapter Thirteen

  The autumn wind is biting late the following Monday morning as we leave Ed Stankowski’s funeral mass at St. Aloysius Church. It’s an ill wind that portends even more heartache. Breaking somewhat with the Catholic Church custom of burial within two to three days of death, the burial was postponed an extra day to accommodate an autopsy and then again to avoid either a Halloween or Sunday service. In a further rupture from tradition, Ed’s widow eschewed a full-blown police funeral. Max told me that she remains bitter about the force casting Ed aside, railing, “Now they want to pay tribute? Why? To assuage their guilt about discarding him, or just to pretend they care?”

  I’m with Papa, Brittany, and Pat. Brittany’s boyfriend, Bobby Harland, is also here at her request, and she’s leaning on him for support. I feel a little stab of irrational jealously; that used to be my job. Bobby and I have barely spoken… this is hardly a social occasion, let alone the time or place to get to know someone. As I watch Brittany and him together, I wonder what I don’t know about her life these days. A stupid thought, I know, but the topic of Brittany is a loaded one today. No sooner had I finished breakfast this morning than I was served with papers from my ex-wife. Michelle is taking me to court, seeking full custody of our daughter. This morning has been difficult enough for everyone as it is, so I haven’t mentioned Michelle’s bullshit to anyone. Breaking the news after dinner tonight or waiting until tomorrow will be plenty soon enough.

  The church service brought back unwelcome memories of Mama’s elaborate funeral mass last summer in this very church. Ed, a Polish Catholic, had gotten the full treatment as well, including a vigil and service at the funeral home last night. We’d stayed away. Given Jake Plummer’s current hostility to Papa and reasoning that he might not be the only one of Ed’s buddies feeling that way, it seemed the prudent thing to do. Pat went and spoke to Ed’s widow to pass along our condolences and appreciation for all Ed had done and ultimately sacrificed to keep Papa safe. Mrs. Stankowski was very gracious, offered her thanks, and extended her apologies for any grief we’ve taken from Ed’s buddies. She told Pat that she wants to speak with Papa and me today.

  So, we’re hanging around on the sidewalk twenty yards from the church entrance in case she still wants to. Mindful of Jake Plummer’s wrath, we’re doing our best to keep out of his way while remaining available.

  Mrs. Stankowski emerges from the church into the sunlight with Max Maxwell and looks around. When Max points to us, she pats his arm and starts in our direction. Mrs. Stankowski is a fine-looking woman, a little taller than Ed’s modest height. She’s dressed in a calf-length black dress under an open slate-gray wool overcoat with a matching veiled pillbox hat that rests atop graying shoulder-length hair.

  “Thanks for waiting,” she says in a crisp New England accent as she walks up to us.

  I introduce myself, Pat, Brittany, and Bobby, leaving Papa for last.

  “Ed was very fond of you,” she tells Papa after greeting him with a brief lean-in hug. “He told me last week that he didn’t mind getting shot for you, Francesco… not that he was happy about it,” she adds with the trace of a smile. “He enjoyed spending time at your home and probably would have come even if he didn’t have the security work for an excuse.”

  Papa is overcome with emotion to the point at which he can’t speak. His eyes fill with gratitude and a few tears.

  Mrs. Stankowski turns to me. “I’m sorry about Jake Plummer. Max told me he’s been hard on you. Jake’s real upset, but he shouldn’t be taking it out on you people.”

  I wave the apology aside. “We understand. I know Jake’s a good guy.”

  She nods. “I’m happy to hear that.”

  This leads to an awkward moment. All that needs to be said has been said.

  Mrs. Stankowski wears a sad smile when she touches Papa’s arm and says, “Okay, then. God bless you folks.”

  We intend to go straight home. Papa has been attracting hostile stares from a few of Ed’s buddies. Like Plummer, they’re pissed at Papa for being outside with Ed that night and incensed at him for putting people at risk by refusing to move out of the house. Thankfully, the fossils who had been at our home with Ed have largely been supportive. Most made a point of stopping by to have a word or two, which seems to have meant a lot to Papa. Having belatedly realized that Jake’s anger is plenty justified, my father has been wallowing in guilt since the morning Ed died.

  Max hurries across the lawn and intercepts us as we make our way toward my car for the drive back to Liberty Street. “You folks coming to the cemetery?”

  I shake my head no.

  “Yes, you are,” he says. “Stick around afterward. Jake wants to talk to you.”

  I wonder why. Speaking of the
unexplained, Jake’s a pallbearer. Max isn’t. I ask why, adding, “You guys were pretty tight, right?”

  “Sure, but Ed and Jake go way back. I was never CHPD, so I only got to know Ed over the last coupla years. Anyway, stick around after they bury Ed, okay?” After I nod, he gives Papa a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

  We pile into the Porsche and head for the cemetery.

  Mrs. Stankowski stands proud and erect at the windblown graveside twenty minutes later, setting aside the crushing grief she must feel while she honors the man she married but won’t get to enjoy retirement with. They’d come heartbreakingly close. I remember Ed mentioning that she’s retiring from her teaching position after the school year. “Then we’ll be a couple of old tumbleweeds blowing around the country,” he’d happily told me.

  I wipe away a tear as the priest begins the brief Catholic graveside service and have shed many more by the time Ed’s body is committed to the earth. Everything about this day transports me back to Mama’s funeral, so I’m mourning for two.

  As the mourners straggle away in groups big and small, we edge away from the grave site and linger under some trees. I admire the fall foliage as the leaves perish in vibrant shades of red, orange, and gold. My eyes are drawn down to the mound of dirt beside the pit that now holds Ed’s coffin, then once again range over the breathtaking show being put on by the dying leaves. The tragedy of Ed’s life being snuffed out is thrown into bitterly stark relief. He deserved to exit at the end of a long, well-earned retirement, just as the leaves around us are going out in style at the natural end of their life cycle.

  Jake and Max find us five minutes later. Jake looks as if he hasn’t been to bed since the night of Ed’s murder.

  He begins by touching Papa’s arm. “Sorry if I was hard on you, Francesco. Ed’s wife gave me hell when she heard about it.”

  Papa nods.

  “Make no mistake, though, you need to get your ass out of that house.”

  Papa nods again.

  Jake switches gears. “The bastard who shot Ed is still in grave condition, but we were able to speak with him briefly.”