Under Pressure Read online

  He was still standing in the mangroves, hands on hips, when Simon and I climbed back into the Rambler and continued to the office.

  ***

  “What are you doing with the kid?” Stark asked, peering through the dirty window of the police department. I’d left Simon out front, where we’d run into Jimmy. The two of them were already heavy into a game of Hacky Sack in the parking lot. The kid had obviously played before. He balanced the little bag nimbly on the inside of his foot, then shot it toward Jimmy, who barely managed to capture it and send it back.

  “He didn’t have any place to go,” I said as we headed down the hall to the chief’s office.

  “Jeez, Sampson, what is it with you and the abandoned?” He was talking about my cat, Nomad. I found her under a tree, trying to nurse kittens, though she was starving herself.

  “You should talk, Stark,” I said. He’d ended up with one of the kittens. “Besides, it will only be a couple days.”

  Stark and I stood outside of Dunn’s office waiting for him to get off the phone. Finally, he hung up and motioned us in. Stark had already given Dunn the rundown on what we’d found in the airplane, including the drugs.

  “We got the autopsy results on the pilots. Both died of massive chest and head injuries. The preliminary toxicology tests indicate no cocaine, no alcohol present.”

  “So the copilot wasn’t using,” Stark said. “Still doesn’t mean he wasn’t cutting into profits somehow. Those drugs are our best bet if that plane was sabotaged.”

  “I agree,” Dunn said. “I want you two on it. Get the records on the copilot from the airline. Find out where he lived, who his associates were.”

  “We’ll need to talk to the passengers and the people at the airport as well. Maybe somebody saw someone around that plane who shouldn’t have been there. We need to get on this as quickly as possible. All hell is going to break loose if that storm moves in.”

  Chapter 15

  Simon and Jimmy were sitting under a tamarind tree, sweaty and drinking mango juice, when I went out to the parking lot. Stark was inside calling the airline to get the copilot’s address.

  “Looks like I could be a while,” I said. “Stark and I need to do a couple of things.”

  “How ‘bout Simon and me be headin’ over to your place?” he suggested. “We be needin’ a swim and I bet Tilda and da girls be home.”

  “You okay with that, Simon?” I asked.

  “Sure.” I could see that he and Jimmy were hitting it off. Figured. Jimmy was still just a kid himself.

  “I’ll pick up pizza on my way home,” I said.

  The two of them climbed into Jimmy’s old Chevy. Fortunately, it wouldn’t do much over forty. Jimmy was a speed demon who made up for his snail’s pace behind the wheel of the Chevy when he got his hands on the throttle of the police boat. He floored the car and the thing rattled out of the parking lot.

  ***

  The copilot lived over near Josiah’s Bay on the north shore. Stark drove. He headed east along the waterfront on Blackburn Highway. You’d never know a storm was coming. Today, the ocean was serene, gentle waves rolling across her surface. High above the water, a frigate bird soared. A pirate bird, it was zeroing in on an unsuspecting brown booby. It dove and chased and harassed until the booby dropped the fish it carried in its beak. Then the frigate swooped down and grabbed the fish in midair. I watched, staring blankly out the window.

  I’d been running on adrenaline, charging from one situation to the next without much thought since that plane crashed into the ocean yesterday morning. I’d recovered the dead, left O’Brien, snooped through people’s luggage and their lives, and stood by as Simon said goodbye to his father. And now the Sea Bird, my only place of refuge, was home for the kid. I was having trouble getting my bearings, seeing the horizon—the proverbial big picture, the damned forest. I was too caught up in events. The worst was the deep ache I felt for the kid and for O’Brien. What the hell was I doing?

  “You okay, Sampson?” Stark asked.

  “Sure,” I said. “Just a lot going on.”

  “Yeah, well, you need to talk, I’m available.”

  “Thanks, Stark. Right now I just need to sort things out in my own head,” I said.

  We continued in silence. Stark drove like every other islander, honking at wayward goats and chickens that threatened to cross in front of him and at friends who lounged in doorways and roadside bars. We zoomed through Kingstown, where the cottages of liberated slaves still stood almost two centuries later.

  At Long Swamp, Stark took a hard left on Ridge Road and we headed into the hills through gumbo-limbo and frangipani trees. We passed a farmer, his mule laden with bundles of bananas, heading to the market in Road Town. In a nearby field, white egrets roamed among the cattle and foraged for insects.

  As we drove higher, the air cooled and the roadside turned to a jungle of heliconia, wild fuschia, philodendron, and strangler figs.

  At the top of the ridge, Stark pulled over and we looked down into Josiah’s Bay. It lay at the foot of the valley where an isolated beach stretched along the shore, the only shade a few sea grape trees. Waves crashed on the rocks below sending sprays of sparkling water into the sun. This was the wild side of the island, open to the fury of the Atlantic.

  We found the copilot’s house nestled in the hillside just above the bay. A woman was in the drive, struggling with groceries. A child of maybe two was trying to help. The woman looked up when she heard our car. She had the same look as Simon—shattered. She was maybe thirty, short hair tightly curled against her scalp. I was guessing she was the wife. The airline had notified her about her husband. She knew who we were when she saw us.

  “Don’t be wantin' to talk to you folks right now,” she said, grabbing the child’s hand and heading for the house.

  I could think of only one reason that she’d avoid us. She knew about the drugs. Stark grabbed the last two sacks of groceries out of the car as well as the two she was trying to keep from dropping. She picked up the child and we followed her to the house.

  “I’m sorry, but it can’t wait,” I said. “We have questions about why that plane crashed.”

  “My husband was a good man and a good father,” she said. “And he knew how to fly dat plane. That crash be no fault of his.”

  We followed her inside. Clearly her husband had done well. It was a well-kept bungalow, crowded with baby toys and furniture. Scribbled drawings were scattered on the table and a photograph held a central place above the couch. It was a family photo—the husband in his airline uniform, she in an ivory dress holding the baby. It was obvious they were proud of the child. Why the hell had he gotten involved in drug smuggling? It looked to me like he had it all. Had the drugs been so necessary in providing a home for his family? I doubted it. He had to make a good wage at the airline.

  Stark put the grocery bags on the kitchen table. She set the child down in his playpen and busied herself putting milk in the cupboard and cereal in the refrigerator. She kept moving in fast, jerky motions, swiping at her eyes, clearly unaware of what she was doing and unwilling to face what she knew was coming.

  I stopped her in midmotion, took the trash bags that she was about to place next to the corn flakes in the refrigerator, and led her to a kitchen chair. That’s when she broke down completely.

  “I tole him not ta do it,” she said, covering her face in her hands and sobbing. “We had everything dat we be needin’. But for Jarvis it never be enough. He grew up real poor and scraped for everything he got. He didn’t want his child to go without. He said we be needin’ ta put money away to send da child to college. He be dreamin’ of da boy becoming a doctor. He promised he’d be stoppin’ when he had enough put away. I kept askin’ him just how much be enough. Now look. I’ll be lucky to keep food on da table.”

  “How long had he been transporting the drugs?” Stark asked.

  “Since da boy was born. I didn’t find out ‘bout it till a few months ago. I was p
uttin’ his lunch in his flight bag when I be seein’ da bag of white powder. I knew what it was. I tole him I’d be leavin’ him if he didn’t stop, but he knew I’d never be doin’ it. I loved dat man too much. Now I done lost him anyway.” She looked at her son, fear for him marring her features.

  “How did he get involved?” I asked. There was a drug connection out there somewhere. Just how extensive was yet to be determined.

  She told us her husband had been approached by one of the mechanics for Island Air. It had started over drinks and talk about their child. The mechanic had been feeling him out and realized Jarvis would be a good bet because he was hungry for money.

  “What about in the last month or so?” I asked. “Did your husband seem upset, worried?”

  “No, just da opposite. He be relieved. You see I finally be convincin’ him to stop. He promised this be his last time.”

  “Did your husband own a gun?” I asked, thinking about the Beretta that I’d pulled out of the airplane.

  “No. I never be allowin’ a weapon in dis house with da child and Jarvis agreed.”

  “Maybe he kept it in his locker at work,” I suggested.

  She just shook her head, exhausted. I knew we wouldn’t get anything more from her today. She was devastated and stuck deep in her own pain and loss.

  She was putting the child down for a nap when we left. I could hear her singing to him as we went out the door.

  “This could be over fast,” Stark said, as he maneuvered out of the driveway. “That mechanic may have wanted to insure against others pulling out or keep that pilot from talking to anyone. He would have had access to that plane and he sure would have known how to bring it down. The loss of less than five pounds of coke would have been worth the message he’d be sending to the others.”

  “Yeah. Let’s get over to the airport.”

  ***

  The terminal was deserted when we got there. It was well past seven and getting dark. We managed to find a janitor mopping the floor who directed us to a door marked “Island Air Operations. Authorized Personnel Only.” No one paid a bit of attention when Stark and I walked in. A couple of pilots were standing at a counter, absorbed in weather maps. They didn’t even look up.

  Nearby, a guy was sitting at his desk examining the contents of a half-eaten sandwich. He looked up, smiled, and told us that any of the mechanics who weren’t out on the tarmac would be hanging out in the lunchroom. He pointed down the hall.

  We had no idea who we were looking for or whether the mechanic in question would even be around. The copilot’s widow had never met the guy and did not know his name. It didn’t matter though.

  Three guys in blue grease-stained overalls were sitting around a table, smoking and playing cards. Another was standing at the vending machines. The minute we walked in, identified ourselves, and asked if anyone had been on duty yesterday, the guy at the vending machines slid out a side door and took off.

  Stark and I were right behind him. By the time we got to the hallway, he was already heading out onto the tarmac. We followed him into the dark. The heat still stored in the pavement felt like a blast from a furnace. I could hear footsteps slapping against the concrete, then saw a shape disappear into a bunch of maintenance trucks and luggage carts that were parked around an airplane for the night.

  Stark and I split up. We’d go in from opposite sides and try to corral him. I pulled my .38 out of the holster that was strapped around my waist and designed to look like an everyday fanny pack. Stark was doing the same. We had no idea whether the guy had a gun.

  I could see Stark scurrying around to the left from one vehicle to the next, trying to keep low and out of sight. I was moving to the right. The mechanic would know his way around out here. I crouched behind a luggage carrier piled high with suitcases, fishing tackle, and boating gear. I waited, scanning, trying to figure out where the hell he’d gone. He had to be hiding somewhere, maybe in one of the vehicles, maybe in the plane. It was a fairly large turboprop that carried probably fifty or sixty passengers. Portable stairs were pushed up to an open cabin door, the only way in or out. If he’d gone inside, he’d be trapped but he’d have plenty of places for ambush, protected behind his choice of seats.

  Stark was thinking the same thing. I saw him dart from behind a gas truck, run to the steps, and start to climb the stairs, crouched low. He was halfway up when I caught a slight movement on the other side of the luggage carrier. Then I saw the guy raise his arm, a gun in hand, pointed right at Stark, fingers around the trigger.

  “Stark! Gun!” I yelled. I heard two shots and registered the smell of gunpowder right before the baggage cart slammed into me and I was buried under a pile of luggage and gear. I was flat on my back, trying to figure out which way was up when the mechanic pounced and started tossing suitcases off me. Before I could figure out which end was up, he had his rough, stubby fingers wrapped around my neck and his full weight on me.

  Somewhere in the mess of fishing gear and luggage, I’d lost my .38. I tried to knee him in the groin, but he had too much body weight on my legs. I could feel myself going, arms getting weak, darkness creeping into the edges of my vision. Then suddenly his grip relaxed and he fell away, stunned. Stark was standing there with an old hard-sided suitcase gripped in his hand and blood dripping down the side of his face.

  Stark helped me out of the pile of luggage and then grabbed the guy by the collar.

  “You okay, Sampson?” he asked.

  “Yeah, but you’re bleeding,” I said, nodding toward his head. He touched his temple, flinched, and said it was just a scratch.

  By the time we got to the police department and had the guy locked behind bars, it was past nine. Stark was sitting in the office dabbing the side of his head with gauze. The bleeding had stopped. The bullet had barely grazed him, just above the ear, lots of blood but no real damage. He’d been stunned for a minute on the airplane steps. When he’d come around, he’d seen the guy trying to crush my windpipe and hit him with the suitcase.

  The mechanic wasn’t saying a word except that he wanted his lawyer.

  “Let’s get out of here, Sampson. We’ll talk to his lawyer in the morning. I’d like to see how he thinks he’s going to get away with trying to kill cops.”

  We headed to the parking lot, both of us more than ready to call it a day.

  “I guess you saved my butt out there,” Stark said as I was getting into my car. “Thanks.”

  “Hey, guess you did the same. Let’s call it even,” I said, flashing him a grin. “See you tomorrow, Stark.”

  ***

  O’Brien’s Jeep, a CJ5, was parked at Pickering’s landing. It didn’t have a top or doors and was a primer rust color. O’Brien could have afforded a Mercedes but much preferred the old Jeep.

  Simon was on the beach playing with Sadie. He came running when he saw me. I could tell he was about to jump into my arms and then thought better of it. I guess he realized we were really practically strangers. It didn’t feel like it though. I stooped and locked him in a bear hug that Sadie got in the middle of. Heck, the kid and I had been through a lot together in the last thirty-six hours.

  “Hannah, you didn’t tell me you lived on a boat and have a dog!” he said. “It’s so cool. I was been playing with Rebecca and Daisy, but they had to go in for dinner. Tilda asked if I wanted to eat with them, but I told her we were waiting for you.”

  “Well, you must be starved,” I said, grabbing the pizzas I’d picked up on the way home. I knew it was no match for Tilda’s Sunday meal. A good example of why I should never be a parent.

  Jimmy and O’Brien were sitting on the Sea Bird sipping Caribs, the local brew. I was surprised O’Brien had come here after our fight last night, but I was happy to see him—too happy. He stood when he saw me coming, unsure just how I was going to react to his being there.

  “O’Brien, I’m glad you came,” I said, stepping onto the boat.

  “I brought Nomad. She wasn’t too happy at the villa
without you and Sadie.”

  “Oh,” was all I could think to say. Disappointment wasn’t quite the right word for what I was feeling. O’Brien wasn’t there to try to patch things up. He was there to bring me my cat. He didn’t even accept my invitation to stay for pizza. I walked him out to the Jeep, trying to figure out a way to say I was sorry about last night.

  Before I could find the right words, he took a jab. “Good kid,” he said, referring to Simon. “It’s nice of you to take him. But you’d better be careful, Hannah. It’s pretty obvious he’s getting attached. You wouldn’t want anyone, especially a kid, getting too close or interfering with your job.”

  “Come on, O’Brien. Don’t turn this into what’s happened between us.” I was angry now. “You’ve always known how I’ve felt about my job. It’s who I am. I thought you’d accepted that when I moved into the villa. I guess you really just hoped you’d find a way to change my mind—change me. Chances are, if you did, you wouldn’t like me, O’Brien. Wouldn’t like what I turned into. Can’t you understand that?”

  “Maybe you’re right. But I just can’t stand by and watch what it does to you, especially after a day like yesterday. You try to hide it, but I know that the deaths affect you. You blame yourself for every one of them—Jake, Elyse, and every other person that you think you should have been able to save. Each one takes a piece of you. I don’t know, maybe we simply can’t be together, Hannah.”

  The way he said it, I could feel my heart drop, the anger giving way to a horrible sense of loss and emptiness. I loved O’Brien. He had always looked for ways to keep us together. Until now. He sounded so resigned. But why the hell couldn’t we find a way to be together and still be who we were? And why was I the one being asked to give everything up? Hell, I was just doing my job, just like he was.

  Only a small part of me was willing to admit he was right. Sure, the job took its toll. It was the price I paid. I wanted O’Brien to stick with me, but maybe it was impossible. Maybe he needed to move on—find someone who wanted marriage, a family. It made me unbelievably sad to think of O’Brien with someone else.