“Are you saying that someone took out a new manifold and replaced it with one he knew would leak?”
“I can’t say he knew for sure. But this manifold looks pretty bad. Anyone who knew enough to put it in would know that. Hard to think it wasn’t deliberate,” Ray Lockhardt said. “Which is just what the asshole at the FAA doesn’t want me to say.”
“Yeah. And you want to know what the asshole at the FAA doesn’t want me to say?” Justin banged his palm against the dented body of the plane. “If you’re right, I’ve got a murder on my hands.”
Back in Ray’s small, glass-walled office, Justin closed the door and waved for the airport manager to sit down.
“When the guy in the Piper landed, did he have to check in? Sign anything?”
“He just had to pay me eight bucks as a landing fee. And that’s what he did. He got a Dr Pepper from that machine there and gave me my eight bucks.”
“You talk to him at all?”
“Some. Enough to know he was dying of thirst. He downed the soda practically in one gulp. Same thing before he took off two days ago. That guy loved his Dr Pepper.”
“Anyone flying with him?”
“Yeah. But I didn’t really see him. He didn’t come through the terminal, just unloaded some stuff from the plane and went to a car.”
“Rental?”
“Don’t think so. Someone picked them both up.”
“Any idea who?”
Lockhardt shook his head. “I wasn’t really paying attention. I didn’t get a close-up look.”
“Get any other impressions of the Dr Pepper guy?”
“I can tell you one thing for sure. He was a pilot. He wasn’t one of those newcomers, just took it up and thought it’d be fun to zoom around up there. He knew what he was doing.”
“How could you tell?”
“I’ve been doing this a long time. You get a feel.”
“Okay. You get any kind of a feel for Martin Heffernan?”
“Yeah. The guy’s a dick.”
“He told me he was here doing ramp checks. What does that mean?”
“It means bullshit work, basically. He goes around, looks to see if we’re parking the planes properly. Then he hassles whatever pilots he finds, checks to see if they got their P.O.H.-Pilot’s Operating Handbook-and their airworthiness certificate. Checks your weight and balance, your license. .” Ray looked off into the distance, then came back to focus on Justin. “You know, that makes this even weirder.”
“What does?”
“Well, when Heffernan went inside the Piper, he had to have seen the extra gas tank.”
“So?”
“So it’s illegal. I mean, again, I can’t say guaranteed that tank’s not kosher, but I’d pretty much bet on it.”
“Why?”
“Anything that throws off a plane’s weight and balance has to be approved.”
“By. .?”
“The FAA. Everything has to be recalculated if you add a huge tank like that. By a certified mechanic. Then you gotta get a form 337. That becomes a permanent record in the plane’s log and part of the airworthiness certificate. That tank just don’t look like it’s got a 337. And Heffernan couldn’t’ve missed it.”
“Hold on.” Justin’s voice got slightly louder now, the only outward sign that he was getting excited. “Do you mean Heffernan was inside the Piper before it took off?”
“Yeah. When he was doing his inspections.”
“And did he talk to the pilot?”
“Sure. I’m tellin’ you, he inspected the plane.”
“And checked his license?”
“Had to have.”
“That son of a bitch!” He saw the confused look on Ray’s face, decided there was no reason he shouldn’t explain. “The pilot? The one who was killed-he didn’t have any ID on him.”
“You think Heffernan stole it?”
“I thought so before. Now I’m certain of it.”
“Why?”
All Justin could do was shrug. It was the most intelligent answer he could come up with.
“So you don’t know who the guy is?”
“No, not yet. I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Nope. He never mentioned it.” Ray grabbed a tissue, blew his nose. “I think I’m coming down with something. The change in temperature, you know? One day it’s fifty, the next day it’s thirty.” He blew his nose again. Then said, “You wanna find out the pilot’s name?”
Justin had to bite his tongue. But all he said, quite slowly, was, “Yes, Ray, I do.”
“Well, I know how you can do that.”
“You do?”
“Sure. If he owned the plane I do.”
Now Ray led him back to the hangar. When they got close to the Piper, he pointed toward the plane’s tail. On it were black painted letters and numbers reading: NOV 6909 Juliet.
“That’s the tail number,” Ray explained. “All you gotta do is check it out with FAA records and it’ll tell you the name of the owner. Anyone can do it. It’s a public record.”
“Ray, you are a very good man.”
Pleased, Ray Lockhardt said, “So can I ask you a question? Couldn’t you just take the guy’s fingerprints to find out who he is? That’s what they always do on Law amp; Order. I mean, isn’t that the procedure?” He looked happy using the word “procedure” talking to a cop.
“Yes, that is the procedure. But it only works if his fingerprints are on file somewhere. In this case it doesn’t matter because there were no fingerprints.”
“In the plane?”
“Anywhere.”
“Well, I know he’s dead and all, but he still has fingers, doesn’t he?”
“Trust me, Ray. There are no fingerprints to be had.”
There was a brief silence, then Ray Lockhardt’s mouth spread into a big smile. “I wouldn’t be so sure, if I were you.”
Before Justin could move, Ray was out the door of the hangar. When he returned, he was carrying a small plastic garbage can.
“It’s from behind the counter in the terminal. Place has been pretty empty the last couple of days. Since the bomb. And Pepe, the cleaning guy, he’s been out with the flu.”
“You trying to tell me something?” Justin asked.
“Yeah. I’m tryin’ to tell you all you gotta do is find the Dr Pepper can in here. I mean, if you want some fingerprints.”
Justin was almost out the door, carrying the garbage pail, when he heard Ray call out, “Does this mean we’re finally even?”
Without turning back, Justin answered over his shoulder, “Let your conscience be your guide, Ray. Let your conscience be your guide.”
Justin was outside and nearly to his red 1989 BMW convertible by the time Ray Lockhardt muttered to himself, “There ain’t no bein’ even with that guy. Who am I kidding?”
4
Justin decided against going back to the station. He’d had it for the day. Besides, he had a computer at home and the work he had to do could be done there.
He pulled into the pebbled driveway of his small 1880s Victorian house. When it was built it was meant to be low-income housing for workers at the local watch factory, about a mile down the road, closer to town. There was a twin house right next door to Justin’s, although the owners had made additions so it was no longer identical. Justin liked his house. It was charming and quirky and it had a nice, private backyard, well protected from his neighbors by a fence and tall trees, cherry and oak. Justin particularly liked his house because it had a lot of its own personality, which meant he didn’t have to bother to put much of his personality into it.
And he hadn’t bothered. His furniture was minimal. A bed and one chest of drawers in each of the two bedrooms. A TV in his bedroom. A comfortable couch in the living room. A PC. He’d put in a good stereo system because music was important to him. He could lose himself in music, mostly rock, sometimes jazz. Lately he’d tried opera and, to his surprise, he found that he liked it. He’d been listening to Maria Callas late at night, sitting in the dark, a drink in his hand, her passion spoke to him. Her urgency. But, at heart, he was a rock and roller. And as he got out of his car and headed inside, onto the screened-in front porch and into the living room, all he wanted to do was have a shot of a good single malt, maybe eventually smoke a joint, and be overwhelmed by some Warren Zevon or Lou Reed or possibly even Fun Lovin’ Criminals, a New York band he’d recently discovered. By the time he got to the CD player, he’d decided on something a little softer, more melancholy. An old Arlo Guthrie. Hobo’s Lullaby. It had been one of Alicia’s favorites. He couldn’t listen to it without thinking of her. As he pressed the play button, he could already hear the words in his head, the words he used to listen to over and over again after she died. It was a song about living too fast and too hard, about taking a look around and seeing what you’d become and feeling that your life was not your own.