Plane in the Lake Read online

  I meet his angry gaze with one of my own. “Jake is right. It’s time to go somewhere else for a few days.”

  “I no go.”

  “Ed’s already been shot. Are you trying to get someone killed?”

  “No.”

  I brace my hands on either side of the doorframe and lean my face closer to his. “Well, you’re going to, and it’s not going to be me or Brittany, damn it.”

  “I no run away from Cosche filth!”

  “Enough with the old-country macho bullshit, Papa! Nobody’s going to think you’re less of a man if you use a little common sense in the face of danger.”

  “I no go! Ed, he think they can keep me safe here.”

  Damned Ed! I slap a hand on the doorframe. “Brittany isn’t coming back until this is over with.”

  The agony in his eyes challenges my decision, but I stand firm. “I’m not putting Brittany at risk no matter what you or Ed or anyone else says, Papa. Period.”

  Chapter Eight

  With Papa’s pigheaded refusal to move out of his house, I’ve formally moved Brittany in with Pat for the time being. Deano will follow when he’s released from the animal hospital tomorrow. Which leaves me. Pissed as I am with Papa for putting others at risk by insisting on staying here because of some macho “I not run away” bullshit, I don’t feel right leaving him on his own, so I’m splitting my time between home and Pat’s place. To Jake Plummer’s disgust, Ed and the fossils seem to have no more sense than Papa—or maybe they share his prehistoric testosterone. In their eyes, Ed’s shooting has made this personal, and they’re determined to see things through. As much as possible, they have one or two guys stationed in the backyard and one on the front porch, with another retired cop in the house with Papa. They’re running short this evening, so I’m sticking around, not that I’ll be much help if anything goes down. There’s one fossil in the backyard, and Ed Stankowski is inside with Papa. Max Maxwell will be here around seven o’clock, as soon as his grandson’s third birthday party wraps up. A fourth fossil will join them shortly.

  Pat and I are hanging out on the front porch awaiting the arrival of Ben Larose so we can conclude our interrupted Monday lunch meeting. She glances at her watch. “Where the heck is Ben? I have to pick up Brittany from volleyball at seven thirty.”

  “Where was her game?” I ask.

  “Some prep school way the hell and gone up in Winnetka. She was griping about having to travel all over Chicago to play.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Pat says with a smile. “Such is the life of the varsity volleyball player.”

  “It’s a tough life,” I agree sarcastically.

  Pat frowns. “She’s right, though. They do travel all over the place to play.”

  “She’s the one who insisted on going to private school.” If anyone deserves sympathy about things school related, it’s me. Brittany is attending Hyde Park College Preparatory High School, which is costing me almost $20,000 in annual tuition—twenty grand that her mother should be paying.

  “That’s the price of having her here with you instead of over in Brussels with her mother, Valenti.”

  “I know.”

  She smiles. “So quit griping about it.”

  She’s right. I went through hell when Brittany went to live with her mother last year. Maker’s Mark bourbon and I had grown close in those months… much too close. Brittany had left for a number of reasons, one of which had been a refusal to return to St. Aloysius High School after a brief suspension following an uncharacteristic blowup with a teacher. She’d had a number of run-ins with teachers and students in the wake of Papa’s shooting incident. If the price of having her back in Cedar Heights is astronomical tuition, it’s a cost I’m willing to bear. Still, a guy can bitch a little about his kid’s hit on his pocketbook now and then, right?

  We can see into the living room from where we stand. Papa is parked on his venerable La-Z-Boy recliner, and Ed has settled into Mama’s old easy chair while they watch a dated rerun of The Rockford Files television show. Along with Kojak and Columbo, Papa has a thing for old cop and private-eye shows—yet another thing he and Stankowski have bonded over. I don’t know about Ed, but Papa has watched every episode of the damned shows enough times that he can probably recite the dialogue word for word. He claims that he learned English from watching TV. That may be, but I don’t recall any of his favorite TV dicks speaking broken English.

  Pat’s brow furrows. “Shouldn’t Ed be at home resting?”

  “He’s a tough old bird.”

  “Dumb old bird, if you ask me,” she mutters with a wondering shake of her head. “Have the cops figured out who shot him?”

  “Nope. We’re starting to wonder if maybe they took their shot and moved on.”

  An elderly gentleman is strolling past with the help of a cane. He peers up at the house as he goes. Pat studies the old-timer on the sidewalk for a moment, then smiles at him and lifts a hand to wave at him in greeting. He doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Who’s that?” she asks.

  I’ve been back in Cedar Heights for over a year now, and I’m still meeting the new crop of neighbors. “I don’t recognize him. He looks like he belongs around here, though, doesn’t he? Probably someone’s grandfather.”

  “It’s only been a few days, Tony,” she says when she turns back to me and picks up the thread of our conversation. “If some guy is still after your father for something that happened almost fifty years ago, what makes you think he’ll walk away five days after he finds him?”

  It’s a good point that’s been nagging at me, as well. “I wish to hell Papa would close the damned blinds.”

  Pat glances back at the expansive front-room window. With darkness falling and the living-room lights on, Papa and Ed are totally exposed to the street. Papa refuses to move the wall-mounted, fifty-five-inch television—“I no make more holes in the wall!”—and he isn’t about to rearrange the living-room furniture, which is placed exactly where Mama thought it should be. I think of the old guy looking inside as he wandered by. Anyone on the sidewalk has a front-row seat to whatever is going on in our living room.

  “Yeah, they should close them,” Pat agrees as we watch them.

  Papa’s eyes drift to the portrait of Mama that hangs on the wall between the front door and picture window. I often find my father sitting and gazing at Mama’s picture or the trinkets and mementos she scattered around the living room, occasionally doing so with her rosary beads in hand when he thinks no one is watching. He’s not a demonstrative man, but I know the loss of his wife of forty-seven years still tears at his heart every day he’s forced to live without her.

  “He misses her, huh?” Pat asks.

  “He sure does.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to leave the house and all those memories behind, even for a few days.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe that has something to do with his determination to stay here. God, but grief is a complicated mess.

  We watch a Cedar Heights PD cruiser approach and wave back to the pair of officers who lift their hands in greeting as they coast by. It’s a relief to know they’re coming by fairly regularly. Jake Plummer has warned us that the frequency of patrols will likely dwindle as the days pass.

  Pat and I chat and watch every car that comes down the street as we wait. Liberty Street is two long blocks of post–World War II brick bungalows that end at Independence Park. Almost every lot features a stately old oak, elm, or ash tree that towers high overhead, creating a canopy above the street. Over the years, the mostly Italian immigrants who settled here have added flourishes to infuse both the bland tract houses and the neighborhood with splashes of personality.

  Larose finally arrives at six-fifty, twenty minutes late. “Traffic was a bitch,” he informs us.

  We chat for a minute before we’re distracted by the deep rumble of an approaching car. A muscular Carousel Red 1969 Pontiac GTO Judge eases to the curb in front of the house a
nd parks behind Pat’s aging Hyundai Sonata. The GTO has been fully restored with twin hood scoops, fat Mickey Thompson street tires, and a functional rear spoiler. I know the details not because I know a damned thing about cars, but because Max had waxed poetic for fifteen minutes about what three years of detailed work in his backyard garage had wrought. I seldom hear him string more than five or six words together in a single go. It’s amusing and touching to see the guy get so emotional about having lovingly restored his father’s old wheels.

  “That’ll be Max,” I announce as the car falls silent and the door pops open. Max climbs out and locks the door with a key. I guess they didn’t do power locks back in ’69.

  “Nice wheels,” Larose says admiringly when Max trudges up the front steps.

  “Thanks,” Max mutters as he eases into one of the two lawn chairs squeezed into the far corner of the porch. He plunks a thermos down next to the chair.

  “You’re early,” I note.

  “Even a grandfather can only take so much of screaming three-year-olds,” he grumbles, then adds with a sardonic grin, “so when Ed told me you were standing guard out here, I thought I’d best get my ass in gear.”

  “Good call,” I say before giving his shoulder a squeeze. Then I lead Pat and Larose inside, meet Papa’s gaze, and tilt my head at the front window. “If you’re going to insist on watching TV with all the lights on at night, at least close the curtains. ”

  Papa’s nostrils flare. “I like to see the outside.”

  “You two look like a couple of ducks in a shooting gallery,” I retort.

  Ed nods. “Point taken.”

  Papa shoots a scowl Ed’s way.

  “Thanks, Ed,” I say while closing the drapes. “Good to know one of you has a little common sense.”

  Papa’s scowl swings to me before I turn away and lead my guests to the kitchen, where Larose, Pat, and I settle around the maple table. I pour myself a bourbon. My guests settle for soft drinks.

  Larose gazes around at the hand-built ceiling cornices, doors, and doorframes, as well as the ceramic tile floor and countertop. “The village tried to condemn this place last year?” he asks in disbelief.

  I nod. “Go figure, huh?”

  “What’s the world coming to?”

  Pat takes a pointed look at her watch. “Let’s get to it, guys. I’ve got thirty minutes, tops.”

  “Did you get a chance to ask your clients about the stuff I mentioned?” Larose asks me.

  He called on Tuesday with a few questions. I touched base with Billy and Rick to get the answers he’s after, but I have a few questions for him before I share Bill’s and Rick’s replies. I don’t want him writing an article that quotes my clients.

  “I did,” I reply. “Tell me what you plan to do with the information.”

  “I’m not entirely sure. I’ve been poking around a bit, learning what I can about what happened.”

  “Working on a story?” Pat asks him.

  “At some point, assuming I’m able to cobble together enough to write something that offers a reasonably factual account of what happened.”

  “Why not just wait and do a story on the NTSB report?” I ask.

  His eyes drift to the window for a long moment before they settle back on mine. “That’s a good question,” he says thoughtfully. Then his lips tighten, his brow furrows, and his voice hardens. “I guess I’m offended by the idea of someone like Megan Walton flying a Cessna 210 with paying passengers aboard. Someone needs to look into that and ask some tough questions about how it happened.”

  “She wasn’t qualified?” Pat asks in surprise as she plants her elbows on the table, settles her chin on her knuckles, and waits for Larose’s reply.

  He frowns. “Technically, she had the requisite flight hours and was rated on the 210N.”

  “But?” Pat prompts.

  “As a practical matter, I very much doubt that she was really qualified. She had the bare minimum number of hours.”

  “So she was qualified and yet not qualified?” Pat asks uncertainly.

  I’m as confused as Pat. How could Megan Walton be both?

  “The Cessna 210 isn’t a simple aircraft to fly,” Larose mutters. “You’d like anyone flying one to have had some high-quality instruction, plus cockpit time with someone who knows what he or she is doing. There’s a big difference between simply being rated on a 210 and knowing the aircraft well enough to get out of a jam when something goes wrong. Putting a greenhorn in the cockpit with paying passengers is criminally negligent.”

  “Is that what happened?” I ask, wondering how Larose could possibly be sure if that was the case.

  He leans back in his seat and sighs. “I’ve got a lot of contacts in aviation, Tony. Lots of good sources, especially when they speak off the record. I was able to gather some interesting details about Megan Walton’s piloting career.”

  “And?” Pat asks.

  “Her flight instructor for the 210 is a pretty sketchy character,” Larose replies with a look of distaste.

  “How sketchy?” I ask after draining the last of my bourbon. Man, that went down quickly.

  Anger flares in Larose’s eyes when he replies, “He’s somehow managed to skate by more than a few times when people have raised concerns. Rumors of kickbacks have dogged him for years. No reputable flight-training outfit will touch the guy, but he manages to get by on his own. Given how much money is behind Windy City Sky Tours and the Walton family, hiring him makes absolutely no sense. There are way better choices readily available. The Waltons could have hired anyone they wanted.”

  “Why is this character still in business?” Pat asks.

  Larose turns his palms up. “Why are so many sketchy people able to make a living? Some are con artists, some make a go of it by sacrificing quality by bidding low, others are simply willing to deliver whatever results people are willing to pay for, ethics be damned. I suspect that’s what happened with Megan.”

  “That seems like a pretty risky proposition for Windy City to undertake,” I suggest.

  “Yeah, well, from what I’ve learned about Jonathan Walton, it sounds like he’s been buying his way out of trouble his whole life,” Larose says.

  I think back on the time I spent with Walton the day I visited his office with Billy and Rick. “He’s certainly an arrogant bastard. I guess I can see him pulling a stunt like that.”

  “Especially if you know anything about his sister,” Pat adds.

  “I’ve heard a thing or two about her,” Larose says. “By all accounts, the woman is hell on wheels. Not someone you want to cross.”

  “You’re talking about Megan’s mother, right?” I ask.

  He nods. “I talked to a guy who runs in their social circles. According to him, if Megan’s mother told Jonathan to give Megan a job, he’d make it happen one way or another. These are the kind of people who think the rules the rest of us play by don’t apply to them.”

  “Money does talk,” I grumble.

  “Which brings us back to the flight instructor,” Larose says. “He wouldn’t jeopardize a fat payday by pushing back against a client’s demands. That would require some integrity.”

  I’ve heard enough to feel as if Larose isn’t going to betray our trust regarding Billy and Rick, but decide to lay down some ground rules, anyway. “Whatever Billy and Rick say can’t be quoted in your article.”

  When he gives me a questioning look, I explain that I don’t want anything on record that might come back to haunt my clients at trial.

  He drains his can of 7Up and sets it aside. “Fair enough. I’m more interested in the Megan Walton angle, anyway.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I say. “I put your questions to Billy and Rick. To your first point, they swear everything that needed to be done to that aircraft was completed. To quote Billy directly, they did so ‘despite the assholes at Windy City dragging their feet at every turn before coughing up the money to keep the maintenance current.’ Billy and Rick claim everything is p
roperly documented. They’re confident it will be crystal clear to the NTSB and anyone else who investigates that the fault for whatever happened isn’t theirs.”

  Larose gives me a skeptical look. “That’s some touching faith in the integrity of the system.”

  “The NTSB is rock solid, aren’t they?” Pat asks.

  “They are, yeah,” Larose replies.

  The NTSB will play things straight; that’s not his concern. He just doesn’t share Billy’s touching faith that the legal system will invariably work as it should. I’ve seen the law subverted by the rich and powerful often enough to share his skepticism. “It’s everyone else we have to worry about,” I mutter.

  Larose points a finger at me and says, “Bingo.”

  We spend a few more minutes discussing the accident before Pat tells us that she needs to leave if she’s going to be on time to collect Brittany. I gather their empty soda cans and dump them in the recycling bin after they depart, making a mental note to chat with Penelope about using Larose as an expert witness when this eventually goes to trial. Then I go to the living room to visit with Papa and Ed. I’m bidding them good night when my phone rings. To my dismay, the name of my ex-wife, Michelle Rice, pops up on the caller ID. I briefly consider ignoring the call, then reluctantly give in. She’ll just keep calling until she wears me down, anyway. I walk into the kitchen to take the call.

  “Another shooting at that damned house!” she exclaims in lieu of a greeting. “You may as well be living in one of those Black neighborhoods, for Christ’s sake.”

  Despite being fully aware that attempting to reason with her when she’s worked herself into this state is a waste of breath, I try, anyway. “We’ve got secur—”

  “This is not acceptable, Tony!”

  “Calm down.”

  “I will not calm down!” she shouts. “I won’t have my daughter living in a fucking shooting gallery!”

  I’m trying to work out a non-incendiary response when I realize that she’s said everything she intended to and has ended the call. Our next contact will most likely be through the Rice family’s formidable army of lawyers. A shaft of fear worms its way into my heart when I realize that another contest for custody of my daughter is probably brewing. It’s hardly a stretch to imagine a family court accepting the argument that Brittany isn’t safe in the Valenti family home. Yes, she’s parked at Pat’s house for the moment, but this isn’t a battle about temporary arrangements. It will determine what country Brittany is going to live in… and with which parent.