Magnolia Gods (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 2) (6 page)

The Aviatrice building in the center of New York City was impressive. It was designed to be. Here was where the deals were made. Designs for experimental aircraft were brought to Aviatrice and great sums of development and venture capital money were handed out. Most airplanes in the world today had Aviatrice money invested in their early designs and made fortunes for its primary stockholder, Wall, as the planes went into production. Aviatrice was a Wall Street favorite, its stock moving higher and higher each time defense and space contracts were announced in Washington.

The structure glistened with glass and chrome and reached to scrape the sky. Mike entered the great front doors, moving among dozens of busy persons bustling in and out of the many elevators to the offices upstairs. The corporate motto that Mike had seen on television commercials, “Aviatrice Corporation, First in Defense of America, Ready to Go to War for the World,” was etched in the marble floor and in the center of the lobby was a full size jet fighter plane. The fighter was a new attack aircraft, its needle nose aimed at the ceiling. Inside the cockpit, a plastic pilot smiled, hands on triggers of imitation bombs and rockets that were slung in profusion under the razor sharp wings. Looking at the fighter, Mike chilled at the potential danger of these machine guns and cannons and missiles, all tearing into some enemy at the hand of one pilot with his one set of emotions and intelligence.

As he always did, Mike asked one of the lobby receptionists to call Tim to come and bring him upstairs through the security. In the past, Tim would arrive on the elevator very quickly. This time, however, Mike waited more than a half hour before the familiar figure came out of an elevator. When he spotted Mike, he walked toward him but the usual smile did not appear on Tim’s face. Tim, always red faced, seemed to have more color than usual and was nervous as they shook hands.

“Let’s go up to my office,” Tim said.

Mike nodded. Tim looked tired and much older than Mike remembered. He was a big man, larger than most, yet Mike’s father had always referred to Tim as the kid in their former squadron.

After they sat down in Tim’s small office, Tim began, “I’ll give it to you straight, Mike. After your father died you chose to keep the Museum open. I didn’t think much of that idea and told you so. Too much debt for you to overcome. Even so, I was your father’s friend and yours too, so I tried to help in every way I could to get Aviatrice funding for your own plans.”

“Tim,” Mike said, “You’ve been great to us. The Aviatrice money has saved us over and over again.”

Tim turned his eyes away. “Mike, the last payment of your grant for this year has been cancelled. I’m trying to work on the accounting office to see if I can get the money reinstated, but I can’t promise you anything.”

Mike’s mouth dropped open. “Why? We were counting on that until the P47 exhibit was to open in a few months.”

Tim moved some papers on his desk. “Aviatrice has budget cuts everywhere. I have to go with the flow, Mike. You know how committees are. Like I say, I’ll do my best.”

Mike took a deep breath. “Any ideas what we should do? Can I send in a revised proposal?”

Tim stared at Mike. “You might stop looking into the Lawson affair.”

Mike was silent for a moment. “You’re the second person who’s warned me about that.”

“Word gets around, Mike. Aviation is a small community.”

Mike answered, “I was thinking that Aviatrice would be pleased if we found their seaplane after all these years.”

“Bad thinking,” said Tim. “I can tell you that Chairman Wall and his daughter Jessica Veal, who is my direct boss, will not be pleased. Just between you and me, they don’t want anyone looking for it. As a matter of fact, this has been their policy all along.”

“Why? That doesn’t make any sense, Tim.”

“I don’t ask questions, Mike. I guess they’ve got enough money to say what they want and get their way. I can tell you that they don’t like the Lawson family, and if I was betting, Jessica and her father are probably afraid your meddling will get that family some sympathy. Take my advice and stay away from anything to do with the Lawsons.”

“You know about the call from the Museum Association?” Mike asked. Tim’s face betrayed nothing and Mike assumed the old Irishman didn’t know anything about it. He had figured his man right. Tim was loyal to his company, had always been pro-Aviatrice, but his father’s old friend wasn’t the kind of guy to go behind someone’s back.

Mike went on, “We have to do some research. Willingness to work on all projects, regardless of the politics, is important to the integrity of the Museum.”

Tim grimaced, “So, say that you’ve done the research. Write down that you found no records available and that the Navy declared the seaplane can’t be found. End of story.”

“I talked to Jesse Lawson,” persisted Mike. “He said that Aviatrice was pretty hard on his family.”

“That must be the grandson,” said Tim. His face was very red with anger. “You going to believe a traitor’s kid? I never heard anything around here except that we treated that family very well considering what they did to us.”

“Did you ever hear that the seaplane was armed?” Mike tried again.

Tim hesitated, then shrugged and said, “What difference does that make?”

Mike could see that the question had caught him off guard, as if the information was new to him. Mike could also tell that his old friend was getting more nervous, didn’t like being asked these questions, especially the specific ones, and that he wanted to end the conversation.

Tim’s words came out like little explosions, his face getting a deeper red. “Look, kid, I’m telling you the plane exploded into tiny bits. It’s gone. You will find nothing there. Research another one of the P47 fighters. More healthy for the Museum.”

Tim reached to the floor behind his chair and pulled up a tube of rolled papers. He opened them and spread the tissue out on the desk. “I shouldn’t be showing you this, but you’re my friend and I owe your father. Here’s all the ocean bottom readings of the crash location. Aviatrice went out only a few years ago and checked the bottom again. We found nothing.” His fingers traced the echo marks on the graphs. Mike could see the results were blank. Tim was right. This location showed no wreck.

“Did you try several locations?” Mike persisted.

“Damn it, Mike. It’s our plane. We don’t have to give this stuff to anybody. The Navy gave the seaplane back to us at the end of the war. It’s our plane.”

Then he abruptly stopped, his eyes moving from Mike’s face to someone approaching behind Mike.

Mike heard the clacking of a woman’s heels stop at Tim’s doorway. The door was opened. He turned and saw a slender woman with groomed hair that was so well arranged he thought it might be an expensive wig, enter the room. Her eyes locked on Mike.

“I’ll handle this, Mr. O’Brien,” said the woman.

Tim stood up, watching Mike for a moment, a tired look, his brow wrinkling. Mike had seen that brow move into furrows a hundred times when he was a child and Tim took him to a playground. It was a look of concern for Mike’s safety.

“Mike Howard, this is my boss, Jessica Veal.”

She hardly waited for Tim to finish, “I’m the Director of Special Projects for Chairman Wall. Tim should have told you to put your request in writing and send it along to me.”

Her extended hand was very cold as Mike took it.

“Mr. O’Brien has told us of your good work at your museum,” she said without emotion. “We’re always pleased to help out organizations that promote aviation history, especially that of our successful aircraft,” She spoke in an administrative monotone, as if she wanted to clear his request off her desk quickly.

She noticed the ocean scans, without showing any expression. “Any other materials from our files should take a few weeks to research. As far as the Lawson case, we think you’ll come to the same conclusion as everyone else. Captain Lawson was a traitor to his country and to us.”

“I wanted to research what happened to the airplane,” said Mike.

She spoke very fast, as though she did not want to spend any more time with him than she had to. “We’d prefer that sad history not be brought up again. The plane exploded into tiny bits, leaving nothing to salvage.”

“Tiny bits.” Mike repeated and thought it was odd that Veal and Tim had both used the same terms. He couldn’t believe that Tim would allow himself to be coached, but anything was possible. Mike’s back was to the doorway and he became aware that someone had come up and stood or loomed directly behind him.

Veal’s eyes moved from Mike. “This is my assistant, Mr. Bullard. You can send your requests to him.”

Mike turned and saw a large smiling man, dressed in a black suit, with a wrinkled tie crooked against his white shirt. He immediately reminded Mike of the weightlifters he used to see when he was working out with his boxing coach, back in college. Their clothes never fit over their muscles. The man stepped forward, his size making the small room crowded, and said, “You sure you’re in the right place, Mister?”

Mike connected with the man’s eyes. In that moment he knew that the man’s smile was false, that his warmth was really covering coldness like ice, that the eyes could not disguise the hatred in them. He recognized from his days in boxing that this man had the look of a deeply brutal man, the kind who like to fight only because he took pleasure in hurting others. He stared at Mike and neither man spoke. Mike, instinctively thinking like the trained fighter he was, reviewed the series of punches needed to finish this potential opponent, and, remembering his best punch, his right, clenched that fist. Again, from experience, Mike could tell that Bullard knew what he was thinking and was doing the same.

“Yes,” said Mike slowly, keeping eye contact, “I know where I am.”

With a muttered damn, the big man’s stare lingered for a few more moments, then he looked away first, losing this first skirmish between them. Mike turned back to continue the interview with Tim.

Veal, who had been watching them and seemed disappointed that Bullard had flinched, spoke quickly, “I’ll look forward to your letter, Mr. Howard.”

Mike shook her hand again. By her statement, she had effectively ended his visit with Tim. He nodded at his old friend who stared at the floor. Then, saying nothing to Bullard, he started out of the office. Bullard hesitated then stepped back to let him pass.

Mike took the elevator back to the lobby. The huge glass doors to the street were patches of light, a bright escape from the fighter plane in front of him, the oppressive military atmosphere. Even now, as he reached the bustling New York avenue, he knew the cold eyes of Veal and Bullard were still watching him, from Tim’s office window high up in the building. Even from that distance as he walked away, he sensed their stares were like little round orbs of laser targeting devices searching out and tearing into his back.

The sky was clouding up when, a hour later, he exited the Connecticut Turnpike. Jesse’s comment when he gave Mike the address for the lawyer, Drexel, was the following, “He’s too far from New York City for the guys he beat in court to get to him easy, but he’s close enough to go back in and make some money when he needs to.”

Mike turned down a road leading to the coast. He passed a seafood stand, and several boatyards. A mailbox stood sagging with age between some overgrown bushes, stakes around its post where someone had tried to shore it up. The box itself had Drexel’s number in small letters on its side. Beside the mailbox was a very narrow sand lane. As he turned into the lane, he saw Long Island Sound. The lane was overgrown with rhododendrons, their branches reaching into the air and in the center of the path was high grass, almost bumper level. The leafy branches did not welcome him, slapping at his car, scratching, then springing back.

The house appeared, low and rambling against the ocean beyond. He parked and walked up to the front door. A slender black man, old and passionless, in a black suit and tie, watched him through the glass front door as he approached.

“What do you want?” he asked, idly looking at the clouds as if expecting rain.

“Mr. Drexel.”

“He isn't here,” said the man.

They looked at each other. “Where is he?” asked Mike.

“He doesn't see clients anymore.” Then the man closed the door.

Mike stepped back from the house and looked around. A path tramped down in the high grass beside the house led to a wooden stairway going down thirty feet to a beach. Mike took the path, hoping to find a neighbor or someone who could tell him about Drexel. He went down the stairs and, on the beach, he found tracks heading out of sight into a brush covered point of land about a hundred yards away. He followed the tracks. After he had walked half the distance, a man came around the point jogging towards him.

The man began to wave as he saw Mike.

“You looking for me?” he said, breathing hard.

“You Drexel?” called Mike.

The man nodded.

“Your butler said you weren't seeing anybody,” Mike said, as he drew closer.

The man stopped and puffed, slowly getting out his words. “George is all right. He likes to take care of me. Excuse me, I got to sit down. I used to be able to do the whole beach.”

He sat with a thump into the sand, legs apart, white hair unkempt from his run. “So you caught me. What do I have to do?” He spoke with the clipped precision of a man whose words may represent the life or death of a client.

“I want to know about the Lawson case.”

Drexel looked up and said, “Goddamn, man, that’s an old one. Why dig that up?”

“I’m looking for the airplane wreck.” Mike handed him his card.

Drexel looked at the card and brushed the sand off his legs. “That’s a long way back. Have you talked to anyone at Aviatrice?” he asked, looking at Mike intently.

With that comment, Mike wondered whether Drexel would tell him anything, whether he was at the start of another run around.

“Wall’s daughter said the company preferred I quit looking. They also cut my museum funding.”

Drexel smiled. “They know how to get their way. That bunch hasn’t changed. How about the Lawson family?”