Plane in the Lake Page 2

  Joan shakes her head and scowls at me. “Decorum, young man! This is a law office.”

  That’s right. Shouting is frowned upon in the hallowed halls of Brooks and Valenti.

  “What she said!” Penelope hollers from the slightly larger executive suite beside mine. Her office is twelve feet by twelve feet. Mine is twelve feet by eleven feet, six inches… and yes, I have measured. Her office is also quieter, not sharing a common wall with the kitchen of the Chinese restaurant next door.

  I roll my chair back to my naturally distressed oak desk to start a new game.

  We’re not really the two-bit, low-rent law firm we appear to be in our current premises. We’re on day sixty-three in our temporary 1960s-era strip-mall digs while a contractor completes renovations on our permanent offices in a slightly more upscale heritage building a few blocks away in downtown Cedar Heights, a small suburb tucked just beyond the southwest corner of Chicago. Low rent is the point of being shoehorned into this dump. Oddly enough, the place is growing on me. It fits us: Brooks and Valenti—Lawyers to Little People and Lost Causes.

  I’m delightedly dragging my fourth king into place when a discreet knock on my door interrupts my progress. I glance up to find Mama Brooks standing in the doorway.

  She says, “Your one o’clock appointment is here.”

  “Please inform Mr. Likens that I shall be with him presently.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Valenti,” she replies in mock deference as she backs away.

  I frown at my interrupted game—I might have won this one, damn it!—and unfold my lanky frame out of my chair. It would be extremely poor form to keep Mr. Likens waiting while I finish the game.

  “How the hell are you, Billy?” I boom as I stride into the reception area, pluck my visitor off the ground, and give him a heartfelt hug while his feet dangle several inches off the floor. Billy is five foot eight or so. I’m six foot five. I wrinkle my nose at the sickly-sweet scent of whatever new floral air freshener Joan has plugged in today to do battle with the cooking smells that permeate our office from our neighbor, The Golden Dragon. I prefer the smell of Chinese food to most of the scents Joan tries to smother it with.

  “Put me down!” Billy whispers furiously. “You know I hate it when you do this.”

  “I can’t help myself,” I say with a laugh as I set him down. “You’re just so darned cute!”

  Billy, the baby brother of the probable love of my life, Melanie Likens, blushes like a little beef tomato. It looks adorable on his cherubic face, which still sports a little baby fat in the cheeks at forty-three or whatever age he is now. I’ve been picking him up since he was nine or ten years old. It’s been pissing him off since he was eleven or twelve. His dark, curly hair echoes my own, albeit without the touch of gray I’m developing. That said, when his baseball cap is off—which isn’t often—his mane has started to show the first hint of receding. He’s dressed up for his visit. New blue jeans, a dark-blue Chicago Cubs windbreaker over a Cubs polo shirt, and hiking boots. His customary attire is ratty jeans or sweatpants, logoed T-shirts, and sneakers.

  Something in the blue eyes set into his angelic face gives me pause. Real anger over being manhandled? Nope. I see worry on Billy’s face. Maybe even fear. I wrap an arm around his shoulders and walk him into my office, where I close the door and wave him toward a worn chrome-and-fabric stacking chair positioned in front of my desk. We drop into our assigned seats and stare at each other.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  Billy doesn’t seem to know where to begin.

  “Have you had lunch yet?” I ask. “I haven’t eaten.”

  “Too nervous to eat, but you go ahead,” he mutters. Spoken like a true lunch-bucket guy who brings his midday meal to work every morning.

  Me? I don’t even own a lunch box. “We attorneys generally dine out with clients.”

  Billy looks at me uncertainly. My sparkling wit doesn’t seem to be putting him at ease.

  “Sorry for the jackass humor,” I add with a frown.

  He waves the apology aside.

  “Seriously though, it’s after one o’clock and I haven’t eaten,” I continue. “There’s a sandwich place down the block. We can talk there if you don’t mind.”

  He nods and gets to his feet, tucking a manila envelope into the pocket of his jacket. I hadn’t noticed it. Maybe he’s actually here on a legal matter? I figured he was just dropping by to bullshit for a bit. We’ve been getting together to do so every couple of months since I moved back to Cedar Heights a year ago.

  We stick to small talk while briskly covering the two blocks to the imaginatively named The Sandwich Emporium, which is located in a converted 1920s-era bungalow. I open the door for Billy and inhale deeply of the yeasty aroma of freshly baked bread. I’m disappointed that the co-owner who usually greets guests is conspicuously absent. Maiko is a big part of the attraction of coming here. Day off, I guess. We cross the black-and-white checkerboard floor to a little counter topped with a very old-style cash register. After ordering a pair of eight-inch Italian grinder sandwiches, a couple of kosher dill pickles, and two glasses of whatever beer is on tap, we sit on a pair of unbalanced chairs at a wobbly Formica-topped table set against a wall. We talk about his kids while we wait for our food. I pick it up when it’s ready, pay, and carry it back to the table.

  When Billy pulls out his wallet, I hold up a hand, grin, and wave him off. “I can’t accept, pal. If, as I suspect, you’ve come to avail yourself of my legal expertise, the cost of this meal will end up on your bill.”

  He shakes his head and chuckles. “You’re in fine spirits today. Working in a run-down noir law office seems to agree with you.”

  I cock an eyebrow. “Noir… that’s good. We think of it as a dump. Noir is much better!”

  His expression turns serious as he pulls the manila envelope out of his jacket pocket. “Actually, I am here for legal help.”

  I don’t like the fear and worry radiating off my friend. I promised his sister before she died that I would keep an eye out for her baby brother. He’d run a little wild in his midteens but sorted himself out on the baseball diamond as one of the top junior ballplayers in Chicagoland. When his Major League Baseball dreams petered out, he settled down and started a family. My job is to make sure he doesn’t backslide. I’ve always called him on Mel’s birthday to keep in touch. Back in the days when I lived in Atlanta, I made a point of hooking up with Billy for lunch or a beer at least once a year when I was in Chicago. It sounds as if I’m about to be called upon to keep my promise to Mel.

  “Tell you what, Billy. Let’s eat and finish our beer, then I’m yours all afternoon to talk about whatever you’ve come to discuss. Okay?”

  He nods, lays the envelope down alongside his paper plate, and says, “Fair enough.” Then he digs into his sandwich with gusto.

  I join in, downing a few mouthfuls of sandwich and quaffing half my beer before my eyes focus on Billy’s envelope. It’s addressed to his company, R & B Ramp Services, but it’s the return address that horrifies me. The envelope is from Butterworth Cole, a prestigious legal behemoth with which Penelope and I have some complicated history. Butterworth Cole doesn’t piss around with legal issues unless there’s big money involved. Billy doesn’t have big bucks. I can’t imagine his partner, Rick Hogan, is any better off. Ergo, they’re mixed up with someone who can afford the services of Butterworth Cole. I can’t think of a way this spells anything but trouble.

  A sense of foreboding suddenly curbs my appetite, but I make myself down another couple of bites while Billy polishes off his sandwich and pickle. Might as well let him enjoy the meal before we get down to business.

  “Glad you made me eat,” Billy says as he pushes his plate aside. He wipes his lips and chin with a couple of paper napkins. “That was damned good.”

  “Best sandwiches in Chicagoland!” I exclaim, purloining The Sandwich Emporium’s tagline. Some of the sloppiest sandwiches, too. I’ve been to the dry cleaner a f
ew times after spilling food and/or sauce on my suits and ties. I’m not always the tidiest guy when it comes to eating, but I’ve managed to get through today’s lunch without a mishap.

  Billy’s expression sobers when he picks up the manila envelope, cracks open the flap, and pulls out a sheaf of papers that I, in all my glorious legal expertise, instantly recognize as lawsuit paperwork. I’m distressed to spot R & B Ramp Services among a laundry list of defendants. I look up to meet Billy’s eyes and wait.

  “Did you hear about the tour plane that crashed into Lake Michigan the morning after Labor Day?” he asks.

  “Congressman’s wife and parents?”

  “He’s actually a senator named Evan Milton, but yeah. His wife and son died. Parents, too.”

  The story swims into focus. A tour plane had inexplicably landed nose first in Lake Michigan. Nobody swam away. “R & B is involved?”

  “We did their maintenance,” he replies, then lifts a corner of the paperwork with his pinky finger. “This legal stuff is way over my head. Fortunately, Windy City’s owners have plenty of money.”

  “Windy City? What’s that?”

  “The owners of the plane. They’ve set up a meeting with me and Rick to go over this thing.”

  “Who are these people?” I ask. “Where does their money come from? At $100 bucks per trip or whatever tour operators charge, I can’t imagine anyone is getting rich from the air-tourism business.”

  “Windy City is owned by some rich kids who work at the Board of Trade. The air-tour gig is a sideline. I figure they want a tax write-off and access to their own plane whenever they want it. One of them goes to football games at his alma mater, another goes on weekend jaunts to shop.”

  Alarm bells are going off all over the damned place. “And these nice people are anxious to help you and Rick, huh?” Billy gives me an uncertain look as I fold the legal papers back into the manila envelope, pocket it, and get to my feet. “I’m glad you brought this to me. Let’s go back to the office and kick it around with Penelope. She’s the brains of our little operation.”

  We chat about our kids on the walk back to the office.

  “I’ll pay you for your time,” Billy says while I hold the outside door open.

  That’s kind of funny, I think as he walks past a baby-blue copy-paper notice taped to the wall immediately beneath our firm’s temporary sign. An excerpt from Emma Lazarus’s poem “The New Colossus” that adorns the pedestal base of the Statue of Liberty is printed on the page:

  Give me your tired, your poor,

  Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

  The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

  Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me.

  That pretty much spells out the mission statement of Brooks and Valenti. The poor creatures referenced in the poem constitute far too much of our client base. Billy is a good fit for our firm—someone in no position to pay us anything near what a legal battle with Butterworth Cole is likely to cost.

  “I mean it, we’ll pay you for your time,” Billy reiterates as we enter Joan’s cramped reception area.

  “Don’t worry about it. We’ll work something out,” I say as I knock on my partner’s open door and poke my head in.

  “Work what out?” Penelope asks, then sits up straighter when she sees Billy easing in behind me. “Sorry, I didn’t realize we had company.” She smiles, gets to her feet, and extends a hand to Billy. “Penelope Brooks.”

  “Billy Likens,” he says as they exchange a crisp handshake.

  Penelope waves us into her visitor chairs and meets my gaze. “Business?”

  I nod.

  She points at the office door. “Get that?”

  I reach back to push the door closed, then place the Butterworth Cole envelope into her outstretched hand without saying a word. We sit quietly while she reads. Penelope’s a wholesome and athletic Kansas country girl with shoulder-length brown hair cut with bangs across her forehead. She stands barely above five feet tall and is a remarkable reproduction of her mother, right down to the hairstyle. She’d been drawn to the law by her admiration of a grandfather who was elected local judge after their family hardware store had been put out of business by Walmart coming to town. Penelope loved how he did the job—“armed with a bushel of common sense and integrity but not a law degree.” He inspired her to go to law school. Penelope’s mother had worked in her father’s judge’s chambers after the kids were in school, developing the skills she now employs on our behalf. Joan has been widowed for something over two years. Filling her empty days with us seems to be good therapy.

  Penelope lifts her enormous chocolate eyes to us, bounces her eyebrows, and whistles softly. “They’re looking for quite a payout.”

  No shit. Twenty million dollars is a fair chunk of change.

  “I assume you’re one of the defendants?” she asks Billy.

  “R & B Ramp Services.”

  “Who are the rest of these folks?”

  “Windy City Sky Tours owned the plane,” he replies. “We serviced it.”

  “And the lawsuit names everyone else who might have touched the plane in passing any time over the past few years?” Penelope asks drolly.

  “Pretty much,” Billy replies with a chuckle.

  She thinks for a moment. “What does the NTSB say?”

  The National Transportation Safety Board investigates aviation accidents, among other things. It never ceases to amaze me that she knows things like this off the top of her head.

  Billy shrugs. “They’re investigating. It’ll probably be a few months before they reach any conclusions.”

  Penelope leans back while her eyes drift to the ceiling. It’s what she does when chasing a thought or a bit of information that’s just out of reach. My eyes follow, and I watch with interest as a particularly large dust mote breaks free from an old fluorescent overhead light fixture and floats down to land on one of my shirt sleeves.

  “Haven’t they been giving public updates?” Penelope asks as I flick the speck of dust aside.

  “Just the facts, madam,” Billy says with a goofy little smile he flashes whenever he thinks he’s being clever. In this case, he’s parroting Dan Aykroyd’s Detective Joe Friday in a 1980s motion-picture parody of the classic old television series Dragnet. How in hell Mel indulged Billy by watching that movie with him a thousand times is beyond me. I mean, the movie was okay, but how many times? But that was Mel—anything for her baby brother. His eyes cut to mine to make sure I didn’t miss his witty moment. I reply with an indulgent eye roll.

  Penelope’s eyes pass between us before she purses her lips, drops her head, and continues reading. When she finishes, she tosses the paperwork on the desk. “They’re fishing.”

  That they are. The lawsuit has no particular focus. Instead, it throws a wide blanket over every potential defendant they can think of and makes every conceivable claim of negligence and malfeasance… and then a few more.

  “Butterworth Cole is staking its claim as lawyers for the plaintiffs,” I tell Billy.

  “What does that mean?”

  “They’re pissing on the case to mark it as their territory in hopes the family won’t look elsewhere for representation.”

  “Don’t lose any sleep over it for now,” Penelope tells Billy, then tilts her head to the side. “How long have you been working with these Windy City people?”

  “A little over a year now,” he replies.

  “Did you know the pilot?”

  “Megan Walton. I was introduced when she started, but we didn’t get to know her. The pilot turnover at Windy City is atrocious. As Rick says, ‘If they paid their pilots more than a couple of bucks above the going hourly rate for flipping burgers, maybe they’d stay longer than a month or two.’”

  “Who’s Rick?” Penelope asks.

  “Rick Hogan, my partner at R & B. He was never comfortable with Megan flying the Cessna and wondered if she was properly qualified. That question gnawed at me
from the day she arrived, never more so than on that morning.”

  Penelope cocks an eyebrow. “Tell us about Megan.”

  Billy frowns. “She’s Jonathan Walton’s niece.”

  “Who’s Jonathan Walton?” she asks.

  “One of the Windy City owners. He seems to be the guy in charge.”

  Penelope nods. “Okay. So, back to Megan. Why was Rick concerned?”

  “She barely looks—looked—old enough to have a driver’s license. We wondered how she built enough flight hours to qualify for the gig at Windy City.”

  Penelope knits her eyebrows together. “She had her pilot’s license, right?”

  “Yeah, and she was rated for the 210.”

  “So, why were you concerned?”

  “The 210 has retractable landing gear and other complexities that necessitate more than basic private piloting skills. It demands an aviator with experience, not someone who happens to look ravishing in aviator glasses and tight clothes.”

  Penelope’s eyes narrow. “That sounds a little sexist.”

  Billy shrugs. “That’s not how I meant it, Penelope. The family connection concerned me, and Megan was very much a ‘look at me!’ kind of gal, hard to take seriously. It was so typical of Windy City to exploit the looks of their employees to promote business. All of their pilots looked good—guys and gals. Anyway, the owners seemed much more focused on appearances and marketing than safety. Even before the accident, we decided not to re-up the contract when it comes up for renewal.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Too much trouble. I’m tired of fighting with the cheap bastards to spring for the money to keep their planes airworthy.”

  “How long had this Megan been around?” I ask Billy.

  His brow furrows while he thinks. “Coupla months, maybe three?”

  Not long, then. I follow up with “What happened that morning to concern you?”

  “We were on the ramp next to her while she prepped the Cessna,” Billy replies with a faraway look. “When she started to taxi, I realized that I hadn’t seen her bleed the fuel tanks. Neither had Rick, so I ran after her, trying to get her attention so I could make sure she had done it. If she hadn’t, we could do it before she took off.”