Coffee, Tea, or Murder? (21 page)

“Yes?”

“I’d like a word with you.”

“I’m listening,” said George.

“I’ll be blunt, sir. I don’t like the fact that you’re joining us for the purpose of trying to identify a killer.”

“That’s my job, Mr. Vicks.”

“This is a public relations flight. We’ve got a lot of press aboard. Don’t want them distracted from the business at hand.”

“Murder is always the business at hand,” George said. “We believe someone on this plane murdered Mr. Silverton. With everyone leaving London to return home to the States, the chances of bringing the killer to justice are slim, if not nonexistent. I really don’t have any choice but to pursue it while the guilty party is still in our midst.”

“Well,” Vicks huffed, “that may be how you see it, Inspector, but I intend to have a word with your superiors the moment I return to London.”

“By all means, sir. Please do.”

I had the feeling that such threats had been made to George before, and that he wasn’t unduly concerned about any of them.

Captain Caine’s voice came over the PA system.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain from the flight deck. We’re getting close to push-back, and we’ll be on our way shortly. I’d like to ask you to find your seats, settle down, and buckle up in anticipation of our departure. Cabin crew, please cross-check.”

I’d sat next to Seth on the flight to London and assumed I’d do it again. But Jim had taken my seat and was engaged in an animated conversation with Seth, freeing me to sit with George in the row behind.

“I had a conversation with Jed Richardson this afternoon,” I reported, “about the backgrounds of Captain Caine and the first officer, Carl Scherer.”

“Anything of particular interest in what he told you?”

I repeated what Jed had said, that Caine had been fired from a previous job for attitudinal problems and for having struck a passenger, and that Wayne Silverton had taken special pains to accelerate Scherer’s rise from a regional pilot of smaller aircraft to 767 certification.

“Why would he do that?” George mused aloud. “There must be plenty of pilots out there looking for work who are certified to fly this aircraft.”

“I don’t have an answer,” I said, “and I’ve been searching my brain for one ever since hearing it.”

Our conversation was interrupted by Gina Molnari’s voice over the PA, informing us that our seat belts were to be secured, loose items stored beneath the seat in front of us or in the overhead bins, meal trays securely fastened, and our seats in a full upright position. A video on aircraft safety played on the screens through the passenger cabin.

“Seems we’re on our way,” George muttered.

As he said it, the brightest flash of lightning and most deafening roar of thunder all evening sent a garish streak of light, like a photographer’s strobe, throughout the cabin, and the thunder elicited expressions of dismay throughout the cabin.

“Gorry!”
Seth said in a loud voice.

“Yes,” I thought as the plane was pushed back from the gate, the rain coming in pulsating splashes against the small window. “Gorry, indeed!”

T
he wind buffeted the plane as we taxied to the runway, lightning and thunder accompanying us every inch of the way.

“There’s only one plane ahead of us for takeoff,” Caine announced over the PA.

That represented good news to everyone aboard, not because it meant we would be taking off soon, but because it said that there was another pilot willing to fly in this weather. I knew, of course, that once we reached our assigned cruising altitude, we’d be above the foul weather and enjoying relatively smooth skies. But until then, I grasped George’s forearm, and he placed a hand over mine. I remembered that Captain Caine had invited me up front again for the takeoff but had obviously forgotten, or decided the flight deck wasn’t the place for an amateur that night. Whatever the reason, it was fine with me.

Our turn came. The 767’s twin jet engines roared to life, and we began our takeoff roll, slowly at first until the engines’ thrust overcame inertia, then picking up speed and eating up runway, faster and faster. The increased speed sent more air over and under the wings, creating “lift” due to their unique shape—relatively flat on the underside, slightly curved on top—the Bernoulli Principle that allows planes to fly at work. The wheels bounced less as gravity’s grip on them decreased, and we were airborne, blasting through the rain and wind and heavy cloud cover in search of better conditions.

“Gorry!”
I heard Seth exclaim again, louder this time.

We continued to climb for another ten or fifteen minutes. Eventually, we broke free of the clouds and were in calm, pitch black air, the wings’ flashing lights and the stars the only outside illumination. There were audible sighs of relief. The Boston councilwoman had cried during the takeoff roll but was now relatively calm. The flight attendants left their seats and started serving drinks again, and hot and cold hors d’oeuvres. A menu in the seat-back pockets promised a three-course dinner, but those of us who’d already eaten had no enthusiasm for another meal.

“Well,” George said after it was announced that we were free to move about the cabin but should keep our seat belts loosely fastened when seated, “I’d best get started.”

“Do you want to make an announcement that you’ll be interviewing people?” I asked.

“I think not,” he said. “Everyone knows why I’m here. I would like you to tag along, however.”

“Of course I will,” I said, not adding that I would have been disappointed if I hadn’t been asked.

He stood and surveyed the cabin. “See that area where four seats are grouped together around that table?” he asked.

“Yes. Perfect for a business conference. And a murder interrogation.”

“We’ll set up shop there.”

We joined others who’d gotten out of their seats and were milling about, drinks in hand, chatting about myriad things. Churlson Vicks had gone to the lavatory, leaving Sal Casale sitting alone.

“Good evening, Mr. Casale,” George said.

“Oh, you’re the inspector,” Calsale said.

“I wonder if you’d join me and Mrs. Fletcher over there.”

Casale looked to where George pointed. “Sure, why not?”

We took three of the four seats. George laid a pad of paper and a pen on the table, crossed his legs, sat back, and smiled. “You obviously know why I wish to speak with you, Mr. Casale.”

“I’d be a moron if I didn’t,” said Casale. “You want to know if I killed Wayne. Not a chance. Wayne and I were in business for many years, first in Vegas real estate, then in this stupid airline deal. You know why I say it’s a stupid deal? I’ll tell you why. You know any airline that’s making money? They’re all belly-up. Even when they make money, it’s chump change. Yeah, some of those low-fare airlines are doing okay, but Wayne wanted to go high-end. I went along because there was something—I don’t know, something fancy about it, you know, like the jet set.” He, too, sat back and shook his head. “Did I kill him? Hell, no. But I think I know who did.”

“I’d be interested in hearing your theory, Mr. Casale,” George said.

“Him.” He pointed at Jason Silverton, who stood talking with Mort Metzger.

“Please explain,” George said.

“He’s a punk. Wayne used to talk about him to me. The kid turned out to be a foul ball after all his old man did for him. The kid takes a walk and disappears for years, but shows up when Wayne is dead, carrying a letter he claims Wayne wrote to him years ago.” He guffawed. “Can you believe it? I sure don’t.”

“What does the letter say?” I asked.

“I’d show it to you, only I don’t have it with me. Vicks gave it to his lawyer. Barristers, he calls them. Doesn’t matter what you call them. Thieves. They’re all thieves.”

“The letter gives Jason his father’s share in SilverAir?” I said.

“Ain’t that a joke? What does the kid do? He takes that phony letter and shows it to Christine, the wicked stepmother. She can’t stand the sight of the kid, but hustler that she is, she sees how they can gang up and claim the airline for themselves. Nice people, huh?”

George ignored Casale’s condemnation of Christine and Jason and asked about the two men who were detained at Heathrow, men with reputed ties to Casale’s criminal activities.

“I’ll own that newspaper,” Casale said. “It’ll be in my pocket before they know it.”

“The men are alleged to work for you,” I said.

“Right. They do. They’re business associates.”

“From what I understand of their resumes,” George said, “they hardly qualify as businessmen in the traditional sense.”

“Maybe not traditional the way you define it, Inspector. Different strokes.”

“I understand,” George continued, “that Mr. Silverton didn’t always live up to the promises he made to his business partners.”

The surprised look on Casale’s swarthy face seemed genuine. “You can’t prove that by me,” he said. “Sure, Wayne could cut a tough deal, and if somebody tried to screw him, he knew how to take it out on them. But me? I never had any trouble with him. You think I would’ve stayed in business with him this long if he’d tried to ace me out of what’s due me? Forget about it.” He waved his hand for emphasis. “Satisfied?” he asked.

“For the moment,” George said.

Casale noticed that Vicks was watching and waved him over. “Hey, Churlson—that’s some name, huh?—the inspector here wants to ask you some questions.”

I had to smile at Casale’s flamboyant style. He was like an actor out of Central Casting for a television show such as
The Sopranos
, or a movie like
The Godfather
or
Goodfellas
. I believed him when he said he didn’t have a beef with Wayne and hadn’t been behind his murder. But that represented only my snap judgment.

Vicks took the seat vacated by Casale.

George started by asking the Englishman the same thing he’d asked Casale, whether Wayne Silverton had been aboveboard and honest with him in their business dealings.

“If I say that he wasn’t,” Vicks responded, “it would give me a motive to kill the man, wouldn’t it?”

“Perhaps,” George replied.

“Well,” said Vicks, “I didn’t consider Wayne to be an especially honest man. He made promises that he didn’t keep, but that didn’t make him unusual. Not in the business world. It’s survival of the fittest, dog-eat-dog, war!” He said to me, “You’ve seen plenty of it in your own country, Mrs. Fletcher, your top executives going on trial. Oh, yes, everyone is out to get what he can, and all the ethics taught in those bloody business schools can be tossed in the trash. Wayne was as ruthless as the next businessman, but he wasn’t the best at it. Oh, no. He met his match with me.”

“Does that include killing him?” I asked, surprised that I’d asked such a blunt question. A small smile formed on George’s lips.

“No.”

“Did you go directly into London from Stansted after you landed?” George asked.

“Of course I did.”

“In one of the limos?”

“In my own limousine,” Vicks said. “My driver met me.”

“I’m sure he’ll verify that,” George said.

“He’d damn well better or he can find himself another job.”

I said, “Mr. Vicks, you told me that your partner, Mr. Casale, was capable of hurting Jason Silverton if he continued to pursue his claim to his father’s share of SilverAir.”

Vicks lowered his voice. “I wouldn’t want him to know that I said that.”

I continued. “Mr. Casale thinks Jason Silverton might be the one who murdered his father. Do you agree with that?”

“Why, yes, I do. Didn’t I already tell you that, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“We have a long plane ride, Mr. Vicks,” George said. “Perhaps you’ll think of something else before we land that will be helpful to me.”

“Seems obvious on the surface,” Vicks said. “That young hooligan killed his father to gain control of the airline.”

“Using a bogus letter?”

“Yes, that’s exactly how I see it. Are you quite finished with me?”

“For now,” George said. “Thank you for your time.”

When Vicks was gone, George said, “I’d love a single-malt scotch, but that would constitute drinking while on duty, wouldn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so,” I said, “although this is very special duty.”

“Still—”

“Whom are you going to talk to next?” I asked.

“The young man, Jason. We have no indication that he was at the airport the night of the murder, do we?”

“Not that I know of. I’ll get him for you. First I want to check on Seth. He was terribly uneasy about flying in that dreadful weather.”

I’d become aware while sitting with George that there was intense interest in what we were doing in our little corner of the cabin. Some people had pretended to simply pass by and pause with their ears cocked. Others seemed to be trying to read lips. I was sure I’d be stopped at some point and asked about what had transpired, and reminded myself that it would be wrong to divulge anything.

Mort was the first to strike.

“How’s it going, Mrs. F.?” he asked.

“Fine, Mort.”

“That British guy, Vicks, looked nervous when he left you. What did he have to say?”

“Nothing of use,” I said. “How’s Seth?”

“See for yourself.”

My dear friend had fallen asleep in his seat, his head resting on a pillow wedged against his window, a silver blanket with the airline’s logo on it covering him. I smiled. Extreme tension can leave a person exhausted, and I was glad he’d given into it. The incessant whine of the jet engines, and the movement of the plane through the air, with an occasional bump, probably also contributed to his sleepiness. It was having its effect on me, too.

“Excuse me,” I said to Jason. “Inspector Sutherland would like to speak with you.”