Russell Andrews - Midas

“The obvious question,” the reporter said earnestly, “is whether or not this is connected to the recent terrorist bombing at Harper’s.”

“It’s an obvious question but there’s no obvious answer yet. All indications are that there is no connection. An agent for the FAA has already been on the scene and his initial instinct is that this is nothing more than pilot error. Although we will be investigating and doing a thorough examination of the aircraft.”

“So you believe there’s no connection to the tragedy?”

“It’s pretty tragic for the pilot,” Justin said, “but as I said, there’s no indication that this is connected to what happened at Harper’s.”

“Do you know the identity of the pilot yet?”

“We’re not releasing any information. We’ve barely had time to gather any, so there’s nothing to be released. Besides, we haven’t even had a chance to inform the man’s family. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

The reporter threw out a few more questions, but Justin shook his head and walked away, over to Mike Haversham. The reporter finished his stand-up. Justin heard the words “small-town policeman” and “certain the FBI will soon be making an appearance,” shook his head again, and said to Haversham, “Okay. Now for the fun part.” He sighed. “I’ve got to notify the next of kin. Who is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“What does his ID say?”

Haversham looked like he was going to cry. “I don’t have his ID.”

Justin decided to hold his temper. Mike was just a kid. He’d never done anything remotely like this before.

“Call the hospital immediately, tell them we have to get the wallet back. Mike, the first thing you do, always, once you know you can’t save the guy, is check for ID.”

“I know. I checked.”

“And?”

“He didn’t have any. No wallet, no ID.”

“You checked on his person?”

Haversham nodded.

“And in the plane?”

The young cop nodded again. “I looked everywhere I could.”

Justin Westwood looked off down the road, in the direction Martin Heffernan’s car had just disappeared.

“Don’t let anyone else near this plane,” he said to Mike. “Especially inside. Anyone I don’t say is okay tries to get in, you have my permission to shoot him. You got that?”

“I don’t have a gun.”

“Then beat him to death with your cell phone, okay?”

When the cop nodded for a third time, Justin headed back to the station. It was no more than a five-minute walk. When he got there, he immediately went to his desk and picked up the phone. He called the Southampton force, got their fingerprint guy, and told him what had to be done. Jimmy Leggett’s funeral was over by now and two young cops filed back in. Everyone seemed to assume that Justin was in charge, so he decided to go with the assumption. He told the two cops to get to the site of the crash. He explained to them how to deal with the traffic problem that would definitely ensue. Then he inhaled a deep breath. He didn’t feel as if he exhaled until nearly three hours later. By that time, he’d spoken to the fingerprint expert, who’d told him that, other than Mike Haversham’s, not one print had come up, that the entire inside of the plane had been wiped clean. Justin had also spoken to an administrator at Southampton Hospital, who told him that no ambulance had been dispatched to any plane crash site, not from them, not from mid-Island, not from anywhere. Nor had any crash victim been picked up. And he’d spoken to Morgan Davidson, a local doctor who also served as the ME when needed. Davidson told him that no body had been delivered to him-and that there had been no alert that a body was expected. When Justin heard that, he hung up and said, “Goddammit.”

Gary Jenkins glanced up at that point, caught Justin’s eye, and said, “Problem?”

That’s when Justin felt himself exhale. And that’s when he answered Gary. “Yeah,” was his answer. “We’ve definitely got a problem.”

The East End airport had, not so long ago, been small and anachronistic. It was a place for local flyers to park their single-engine planes. And it was a friendly stopover for nonprofessional pilots traveling up and down the East Coast. For years, there was one charter company based there. They flew commuters back and forth to Manhattan on Fridays and Mondays on a seaplane, and occasionally flew families up to Martha’s Vineyard, Nantucket, and Block Island.

Over the past decade, like everything else in this part of Long Island, the airport had gotten larger, noisier, and less friendly. Corporate and time-share jets were now hangared there. Private helicopters-the new toy for millionaires who didn’t like to deal with highway traffic-flitted about ubiquitously. Commuter planes operated several times a day, seven days a week. And there were three charter companies now. All of them thriving.

Ray Lockhardt had worked at the airport for fourteen years, the last four as manager. Two years before his promotion, he’d been arrested by Justin Westwood. Justin had only recently arrived in East End Harbor, and was new to the police force. Jimmy Leggett had been keeping an eye on a drug dealer named Manual, who’d been dealing out of the black section of the Hamptons on Route 114-the section the snobby Bridgehampton and Southampton locals referred to as “Lionel Hampton.” Leggett had been looking for an opportunity to take Manual off the streets and, having had some experience in this area, Justin was assigned to shadow him part-time. On his watch, he caught Ray Lockhardt buying an ounce of grass and some downers. Lockhardt was stand-up when the arrest went down. He didn’t argue or deny anything. He just said to Justin, in a fairly even voice, “I’ve never done anything like this before. And I’ll never do it again. I’m going through a divorce, I haven’t slept in a week, and I thought this shit would help. If I’m busted, I’ll get fired. Ask anyone about me, they’ll tell you this isn’t my style.” He blurted it all out as if it was one long sentence. If it had been delivered a little more smoothly, Justin would have thought it had been rehearsed. But it wasn’t smooth. The words were nervous and heartfelt. It was Justin’s first major decision on the job. If he didn’t arrest Ray, he couldn’t make the bust on Manual stick. On the other hand, all he had was a small amount of marijuana and a few pills. No way Lockhardt deserved to have his life ruined-or at least put on hold-for doing something that Justin did himself whenever he could. And there wasn’t a chance in hell Manual was going to do time for this. He’d get a minuscule fine and be back in business in hours. It wasn’t much of a decision. He said to Lockhardt, “I better not find out you’re lying.” That was all he said. Lockhardt was out of there in seconds. Then Justin turned to Manual, who couldn’t believe his luck. “I’m not worried about you. You’ll do something a lot stupider than this and you’ll do it soon. Then we’ll get you.” Manual swore that he was changing his whole life. His stupid days were over thanks to Justin’s generosity. It turned out that Ray Lockhardt was telling the truth. His divorce went through, he never got in trouble again, and eventually he got promoted to airport manager. Manual, on the other hand, was definitely lying. Three weeks after the aborted bust, he was shot and killed in the South Bronx. A coke deal gone sour.

Ever since that day, Ray Lockhardt treated Justin Westwood like his best friend. They didn’t socialize or even bump into each other very often. But if they happened to be in the same restaurant, Ray always sent over a drink, which Justin acknowledged gratefully. And if they passed each other in the street or bumped into each other in the supermarket, Ray always went out of his way to say hello and ask Justin how he was doing. Justin always replied that he was doing just swell. Even if he wasn’t.