Russell Andrews - Midas

So normally Ray wouldn’t have been unhappy to see the police officer walk into the airport terminal two days after the plane crash by the bridge. But Justin thought he spotted something in Ray’s eyes. Something that said he wasn’t thrilled with the visit. The look disappeared quickly, though, then Ray gave him a happy wave of his hand and said, “What can I do for you, Officer Westwood?” Normally, Justin would have said what he always said: “Call me Justin.” But today he let the appellation stand. He had a feeling today it was better to keep things formal.

“I’m here about the crash,” Justin told him.

The look on Ray’s face definitely turned to unhappy.

“Your mechanic finish his inspection of the plane?” Justin decided he could now officially describe Ray as looking pained.

Ray Lockhardt nodded. Then he shook his head. “Yeah, it’s finished. But I did it myself. The inspection.”

“That normal? I thought you were more the executive type now.”

Ray didn’t crack a smile. He just looked even more pained, then said, “You know, the FAA can cause a lot of trouble for me. Fines. Heavy fines. They could even shut me down.”

“You doing something wrong?” Justin asked.

“No. Not a thing! Everything here goes strictly by the book.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Ray didn’t answer.

“Ray, is there some problem I don’t know about? Remember, I’m pretty good at solving your problems.”

Ray hesitated again. Then he picked up a copy of the Daily News that was sitting on the counter in front of him. He turned to page sixteen, showed Justin a small story at the bottom right of the page. The headline said: PILOT ERROR CAUSE OF LONG ISLAND CRASH. The story went on to say that an FBI spokesperson revealed that the FAA had determined there was no connection between the small plane crash and the bombing at Harper’s. The spokesperson was quoted as saying that this was just a terrible coincidence. The pilot’s name was still not released, because his family had not yet been reached.

“This based on your report?” Justin asked. “You talk to this reporter before you talked to me?”

Now Ray licked his lips, which looked dry and cracked. “I haven’t talked to any reporters. And I haven’t given anyone my report yet.”

“Not even the FAA?”

“Hell, no.”

“Then how can they already have made this kind of determination?”

“Don’t know. But I was told that they had.”

“Who told you? Martin Heffernan? The guy who was here the other day?”

“Right. The GAS agent.”

“GAS?”

“General Aviation Safety.”

“What is it with you guys and your acronyms? He called himself something different. FSOD?”

“FSDO.” He too pronounced it “fizzdough.” “Flight Standards District Office. The GAS guys work out of FSDO.”

“Well, with all those acronyms behind them, I guess your report’s gonna say the same thing as theirs, right?”

Ray Lockhardt didn’t answer.

“Ray? Is your report going to agree with Heffernan?”

Lockhardt lowered his voice, even though no one else was in the building. “He didn’t just tell me what their finding was.”

Justin spoke casually. “No? What else did he tell you?”

“He said I shouldn’t tell you anything. Said I shouldn’t tell nobody anything. But especially you.”

Justin nodded, as if the news didn’t surprise him. Which, in some ways, it didn’t. He hadn’t exactly made a pal of Martin Heffernan. “Well, I don’t want you to get in trouble with the FAA, Ray. You don’t have to tell me a thing.”

“FAA, hell.” He tapped the newspaper on the counter. “You read this story? You think I want to mess around with the goddamn FBI?”

“No. I don’t think you do. And I don’t think you should.”

It was an exit line, but Justin didn’t leave. He waited. He waited until he could see Ray struggle to figure out what he was going to say next. And what he said was, “That guy’s a little weasel!” He practically spit the words out.

“Heffernan, you mean?”

“Yeah,” Ray said. “Heffernan. Normally these guys check us out once a year, maybe twice. He’s been here a lot lately, over the past couple of weeks. Hassling us. Even made some late-night checks. I knew something was up. I mean, what the hell’s he hassling me for? So fuck him. He can’t stop me from telling you the truth.”

“You sure?” Justin said. “I mean it. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

Ray Lockhardt laughed. “You’re good,” he said. “The more you tell me to shut up, the more I want to spill my guts. You must be hell in the interrogation room. I’d like to see that sometime.”

Justin did his best to laugh back. “We don’t have an interrogation room,” he said. “There’s nothing to see.”

And now Ray wasn’t laughing or smiling. His lips were together and his eyes were grim. “Well how ’bout if I show you something, then?” he said. “How ’bout I show you something pretty fucking amazing?”

They were back in one of three hangars on the airport property. In the middle of the enormous space was the wreck of the crashed airplane. Ray led Justin toward the wreckage. He hopped up onto one of the damaged wings, indicated that Justin should follow. Then he ducked down and slipped inside the plane. Justin stepped forward and peered in.

“You know anything about planes?” Ray asked.

“Now’s probably a good time to mention this. I’m not the most mechanical guy in the world.”

“All right, I can keep it simple.” And as he spoke, he began pointing, indicating various knobs and tubes and gadgets, some still whole, some twisted and gnarled from the impact. “This is a Piper Saratoga. A single-engine piston airplane.”

“I’m with you so far.”

“There are two weird things about this particular plane. First is, look here in the back. Should be a four-seater but the two backseats are ripped out. Somebody ripped ’em out so they could put this thing in.” He tapped a large, heavy-looking tank that took up much of the back half of the plane.

“And what is that?”

“A long-range gas tank.”

“Okay, now you’ve got to explain.”

“These planes aren’t meant to fly long distances. It’s not what they’re made for. They’re easy to fly, they’re not complicated. It’s why a lot of them get stolen. And when they’re stolen, the guys who steal ’em sometimes put in these long-range tanks.”

“Why?”

“Look, I only know this because I hear the pilots talk. This is pretty common knowledge. .”

“Ray, I’m not interested in where you get your info. I just want to know what it is.”

“These are drug planes. A lot of ’em get stolen in Florida. They steal ’em from weekend fliers, they get the new tanks, they’re good for long trips to South America and back.”

Justin tried to digest this information but it didn’t add up to much. It had no context for him other than it opened up one vague possibility: the crash was connected to some kind of drug smuggling scheme. So he just filed it away in the back of his head. “You said there were two things that were strange about the plane. What’s the second?”

“Can you take a little lesson in heating systems?”

“Hey, you can dish it out, I can take it.”

“These kinds of planes, the cabins are heated by heat from the exhaust manifold pipe. It goes through the exhaust manifold.” Ray now touched something that Justin assumed was the manifold. “They put this shroud around it and ram air blows it in. The heaters don’t work too well except in flight because it takes air to push the heat through and more air comes in while you’re flying. Here, you see, you regulate it by opening and closing the valve.” He demonstrated. “There’s no thermostat.”