Under Pressure Page 4

  “There are motives other than terrorism,” I said.

  Chapter 6

  Even Westbrook’s cologne couldn’t mask the smell of the morgue that assaulted my senses the minute we got off the elevator. Nothing like it. It’s trite to say it smelled like death but that was exactly how it smelled—like blood and body fluids muted by disinfectant.

  I led the way down a dimly lit hallway to the double doors and pushed through. An attendant in a bloodstained lab coat was sitting at a desk. I showed him my badge and told him we were there to identify the Riley couple. He led us to the back, where the bodies were still bagged and lying on gurneys. It was pretty obvious which were the Rileys—no bulk in the lower half of the bag. The attendant unzipped one of the bags, exposing the face.

  “Yeah, that’s Bill Riley,” Westbrook said. He didn’t show a sign of emotion. This didn’t bother him in the least. He moved in closer, and before I realized what he was doing, he’d pulled the zipper all the way down, exposing the whole body. One leg was missing at the hip. All that was left of the other was the bloody end of a femur.

  “Ol’ Riley. At least you kept your pecker,” he said, carelessly flipping one side of the bag back over the body. Then he checked out the wife and said her name was Louise. “I’ll call the family,” he said and walked out the door. The guy never flinched.

  It was past three o’clock when I got back upstairs and tracked down Dunn and Stark in Dr. Hall’s office. Hall is head of the hospital and chief of surgery, “surgery” including everything from a well-placed stitch and a Band-Aid to repairing gunshot wounds. He’s patched me up more than once.

  Hall was sitting behind his desk tapping his pen against his forehead and flipping through papers. A woman I didn’t know sat on the other side. She looked official though, wore a gray suit, a perfectly tailored size eight if I had to guess, with a blouse in subtle gray and navy stripes. She wore navy heels and carried a navy handbag and leather briefcase. She was black, probably forty, and a classy-looking woman.

  “Hannah, this is Edith Leonard. She owns Island Air,” Hall said. I knew the name. It appeared in the paper at least once a week for some charity event or other. Her husband was a high-powered attorney with clients in offshore banking. The Leonard name was on a dozen businesses around the islands, from mom-and-pop groceries to auto dealerships to the huge office complex in the middle of town. I had little doubt that she was related to most of them. Her family had a lot of clout in the islands.

  She stood and took my hand. “Detective Sampson. I can’t thank you enough for your heroics today. If you hadn’t been out there and acted quickly, no one in that plane would have survived.”

  “I was in the right place at the right time,” I said. “Jimmy Snyder was unbelievably skilled down there and we were lucky. I’m sorry we couldn’t save them all.”

  “From what I’ve been told, there was nothing you could do. Those that didn’t make it died on impact.”

  She placed the briefcase on her lap, unsnapped the buckles, and pulled out a couple of printed documents. She’d brought the passenger list and the emergency contact information that the airline routinely collected from passengers.

  “The airline will notify relatives. We’ll need to give them a contact number here at the hospital,” she said, getting down to business.

  “They can call me directly,” Hall said, handing her his card. “That number rings right into my office. They won’t have to go through the hospital switchboard.”

  “Now, what about an investigation?” she asked, turning to Dunn. “I want the airline to be involved and I’d like to be kept informed. I’m convinced that my company is not at fault and I want it proven. You probably know we are a new outfit—not yet three years in business. We just bought our fifth plane. Our target market has been the wealthy traveler who wants red-carpet treatment and it’s really paid off. We’ve managed to capture a select market. I can’t afford the negative publicity and I certainly can’t withstand a lot of frivolous lawsuits about negligence.”

  “Red-carpet treatment is one thing, but what about maintenance?” Stark asked. Money and power didn’t impress Stark.

  “We keep our planes in top condition. The plane that went down was a Beech 99, completely refurbished inside and out.”

  “You must know that ninety-nine point nine percent of the time these crashes are due to mechanical failure or pilot error,” Dunn said. I wondered where he’d gotten that figure.

  “More than likely, that’s the case here,” he continued. “For what other reason would that plane have gone down?”

  “I can assure you that neither pilot error nor equipment failure is involved in this case. I maintain a strict schedule of maintenance on my aircraft and that plane was gone over from nose to tail just one month ago. Every system was checked.”

  “What about the pilots?” Dunn asked.

  “I hire only the best. Both were highly experienced. The captain has been with the airline from the beginning and his record is impeccable. He flew Beech 99s for Caribbean Airways before coming to us. Additionally, in January both he and the copilot went to do refresher training on the Beech 99 as well as our other aircraft. We require that all our pilots take this training every year.”

  “What else could be a factor?” Dunn prompted.

  “I did heard reports that there was an explosion before the plane went down,” she said. “You know what’s happening in the world these days. It was just a matter of time before terrorism reached our quiet islands.”

  “This was the second time today that someone had suggested terrorism. Westbrook being the first.

  “I didn’t hear an explosion,” I said. “Where did you get that information?”

  “I was told that one of the local fishermen was talking about it on the docks. Word gets around.”

  “I’d call it rumor,” I said.

  “Besides,” Stark said, incredulous, “why would a terrorist want to bring down a little island hopper in the Caribbean? Not much of a statement there. I mean, come on.” He bent his arms out at his side; his hands opened, palms up, making a weighing motion. “A 757 into the pentagon—a turboprop Beechcraft into Drake Channel and a big spread in the Island News. I don’t think we should waste our time going there.”

  “I’m sure that my airline is not at fault,” she said. “Perhaps there was someone targeted on the plane.”

  “Let’s not jump the gun here,” Dunn said. “We need to check out the plane and its contents. Hannah, I want you out there first thing in the morning. Snyder will back you up. I’ve spoken with the director of civil aviation. He will get in touch with the UK Department of Transport, which handles aircraft accidents in the islands. He’ll get back to us as soon as he can make arrangements to get a crash investigator down here. I’ve already arranged a site in one of the empty warehouses in the harbor. Everything that is brought up will be taken there.

  “The sooner we get this resolved, the better for everyone—victims, families, airline, the tranquility of the islands,” Dunn insisted. “Besides, a tropical wave is developing in the Atlantic with the potential to move in by the end of the week. Conditions could get impossible out on the water.”

  I did not want to dive into that airplane again, but I knew there wasn’t a choice. It was times like this that I really missed having an expert team of divers like the team I headed in Denver. Here, we had one experienced underwater crime scene investigator—me—and Jimmy. Most of the time that was sufficient.

  We started through the passenger list that Edith Leonard had brought. Dr. Hall referred to the patient files on his desk, updating us on the condition of the victims. Both pilots had been dead on arrival—multiple injuries. The other dead were the Rileys and Lawrence Redding.

  The young couple were newlyweds on their honeymoon. Hall reported that though the groom had moderate injuries, a sprained wrist and contusions, his wife was touch and go. She had been without oxygen for probably fifteen minutes before the emerg
ency crew got her breathing out there on the boat, and she had also sustained head injuries. Her husband had already called relatives and her parents were getting the first available flight down.

  The woman who had been making her way out of the plane when we got down to the wreck was fine. Her name was Zora Gordon and she was insisting on being released. Hall saw no reason to keep her in the hospital.

  Daniel Stewart, the actor, had also been injured. He had a broken collarbone and wrist. He’d been traveling with his agent, Sammy Lorenzo, the guy in the parrot shirt who’d been unwilling to give up my regulator. They’d be released in the morning, as would Debra Westbrook, the senator’s wife.

  That left Simon. He was physically okay but emotionally devastated. His aunt was listed as an emergency contact. I remembered what he’d said about his aunt. I didn’t like it.

  Chapter 7

  The door to 107 was ajar when I walked past. I couldn’t help overhearing the excited conversation on the other side. Okay, I admit it. I eavesdrop. It’s my job.

  “We can really take advantage of this whole situation,” the man was saying. “The tabloids are still picking up on the lies that ‘dancer’ was spreading around about you. Once we get this story out, those rumors will be old news. You’ll be a real-life hero. I can see the headlines. Movie Star Saves Senator’s Wife!

  “Look at the copy that reporter dropped off. It will be on the front page of the local island rag tomorrow morning. By tomorrow afternoon, I’ll have that photo in every big paper in the U.S.”

  I tapped lightly on the door the moment the guy stopped to take a breath. There was silence for a few more seconds. Then another voice invited me in.

  A man who looked a lot like Danny DeVito was sitting in a chair, sweeping his arms through a cloud of smoke that circled just above his head, obscuring the “No Smoking” sign. This had to be Sammy Lorenzo. I recognized him as the passenger in the parrot shirt. He’d quickly tried to put the cigar out, but it still smoldered as he cupped it in the palm of his hand. I couldn’t believe he could handle smoke in his lungs after nearly drowning just a few hours ago. I chalked it up to the healing powers of tobacco and let it go.

  “Hannah Sampson, Tortola PD,” I said, shaking Lorenzo’s hand.

  “Detective Sampson,” he said, standing and gushing. “It’s so good to meet you. Man, you really saved my ass down there in that airplane! We were hoping for the chance to meet you. This is Daniel Stewart.”

  “How are you doing?” I asked, turning to Stewart. He was lying in the hospital bed, his wrist in a cast, his arm in a sling.

  “Fantastic. They’ve got me on some dynamite pain killers.” He looked it.

  “I wanted to stop in and thank you for taking care of Debra Westbrook out there. It allowed us to get down to that plane fast and pull the other passengers out.”

  “Hey, we’re at your service,” Lorenzo said. He was chewing on the unlit cigar, working it into a slimy mess.

  “So Betty Welsh has already been here to get the story,” I said, picking up a couple of photos that lay on the bedside table with her card clipped to them.

  I wasn’t surprised. The woman was a dynamo. I hadn’t seen her out at the scene, but she’d clearly been there with a photographer. I studied the pictures, one of Stewart in the water holding onto Debra Westbrook, then another of him helping her onto the rescue boat.

  Betty had to have been one of the first on the scene. I couldn’t help admiring the woman. She always wrote an accurate and responsible account. If someone was scooping the story, I was glad it was Betty.

  “Yeah. As a matter of fact, she just left,” Lorenzo said. “She spent an hour interviewing Daniel. I told her I wanted to get the story out on the wire and hit the major papers in the States. It will be great publicity! Absolutely fantastic. This couldn’t get any better.” Lorenzo was nearly choking on his cigar now.

  Stewart had hardly said a word. He was looking uncomfortable with the whole concept. Surprising, I thought. After all, this is what being a star was all about. He noticed me noticing.

  “Sammy is the mover and shaker. That’s why I hired him. He does what I can’t and he’s a good friend,” Stewart said. “If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have a career. He does the promotion and keeps me working. All I want to do is act. Funny, huh? Right now it’s this Avenger gig, but we’re about to sign for a major film role with a multi-million-dollar budget. That’s all because of Sammy.”

  I’d never met an actor before, but if I’d given it any thought, Stewart would not have been what I’d expect. He seemed pretty humble and low-key for a guy who probably had women hanging all over him. I didn’t begrudge him the publicity. It had to have been painful pushing Debra Westbrook out of that plane and holding her up in the water with the injuries he’d sustained.

  “Are you up to telling me what you remember about the crash?” I asked.

  Stewart replied, “I was sitting in the last row on the right side near the window. There were two seats together back there. The senator’s wife moved back right before takeoff and asked if she could take the seat next to me. I told her sure. There was the kid. Christ, I can’t believe you got him out. What about his dad?”

  “He didn’t make it.”

  “Man, tough break. Is the kid okay?”

  “About as you’d expect. He’s hurting. Doc gave him something to help him sleep.”

  “I’ll get down to his room to see him,” he said.

  “He’ll like that,” I said and pressed on. “So what happened next?”

  “Well, we’d barely lifted off the ground when the kid got up and went to the john. He was taking pictures out the window on his way.

  “I could tell his father didn’t like it. The seat belt light was still on. He kept looking back to see if the kid was okay.”

  “About then I heard one of the engines sputter and quit. Just minutes later, the captain came on the intercom. Said there was a problem, he’d be heading back to the airport. I wasn’t too worried. I knew the plane could make it back easily on one engine. But he’d just begun to turn the plane when the other engine quit. God, what a feeling. It was horrible.”

  I could only imagine. Everyone on board must have known what was going to happen.

  “We kind of floated there for a second, then the thing just started to fall. The pilot came back on. Jeez, I could hear the barely controlled panic as he told us to prepare for a crash landing.” Stewart was reliving it and trying to contain the horror.

  “We didn’t have time to react. I heard the father yelling to his son. He was struggling to get out of his seat to get back to the bathroom, but he couldn’t get up. The plane was going down too fast. All he could do was stay buckled in and brace for the crash.

  “The plane hit the water like a rock. People were screaming and the water was rushing in like crazy. Everything’s kind of a blur after that. I don’t even remember unbuckling my seat belt. Everyone else seemed kind of stunned. I helped the senator’s wife. I got her unbuckled and we stumbled to the door. I don’t even remember opening it, but I guess I did.”

  Stewart couldn’t tell the story fast enough now, his words tumbling over one another as though getting them out would end the horror.

  “I was trying to push her out when the plane started sinking, sliding right through the water nose first. She was having a hard time fighting her way out the door. I just pushed as hard as I could and suddenly we were in the water. I could feel myself being sucked down with the plane. I held on to her and prayed. Suddenly we were on the surface. That’s when I saw you.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual when you were checking in or waiting to board?”

  “No, nothing like that. Are you thinking this wasn’t an accident?”

  “Not likely, but we’ve got to check it out. Were you guys vacationing in the islands?”

  “Yeah,” Lorenzo said. He had been growing paler and more subdued as Stewart described the crash. “Daniel wanted to get away for a fe
w days. Jeez, he’s right in the middle of filming Avenger number three. I couldn’t talk him out of it though. He wanted some sun and tropical breezes.

  “A couple of days ago, I decided to join Danny. I couldn’t believe it when I got down here. Everybody’s out on damn boats—boring. Give me a casino and show girls anytime. When Daniel here up and decided all of a sudden to head back home, I was racing him to the airport.”

  “I wanted to get off the island before that bad weather hit and we ended up stranded. I’ve got to get back to the film,” Stewart explained.

  “How did you choose here?” I asked. “Why not someplace like Saint Barts?” That little island just off of St. Martin was known as the hangout of the rich and famous. It was French, had unbelievably good restaurants and a picturesque port with a few million-dollar boats tied to the docks and moored in the bay.

  “That’s what I wanted to know,” Lorenzo said. “Danny here had no interest in going there.”

  “Why would I want to go someplace where there are a bunch of other movie stars?” he asked. “Remember, the point was to get away.”

  “I’ll let you two get some rest,” I said. They both looked beat, especially Stewart. I could see that the pain meds were wearing off. His face was strained, his jaw tight.

  “Detective,” Stewart said as I stood to leave, “what happens with the plane?”

  “I’ll be going back down there in the morning. A couple of salvage divers will help bring the aircraft up. There’s an investigation whenever a plane goes down.”

  “What about the contents?” he asked.

  “Everything will be collected and secured until the investigation is complete,” I explained. “It will be a while before anything will be released though. I’d guess the airline will be responsible for shipping your belongings to you.”

  “Hey, Detective,” Sammy said as I started out the door. “How about we get a picture tomorrow of you and Daniel, maybe in the police boat, you in your dive gear. It would be great press,” he said, getting into the idea, working on the spin. “I can see it now. A follow-up story. Daniel Stewart assists drop-dead-gorgeous scuba-diving cop. Will it turn to romance?”