The Savannah Project (Jake Pendleton series) Page 13

  All three men made it back to the bank in less than half the time it took them to traverse the same distance to the aircraft. As they arrived on shore, one of the deputies asked if they had seen the alligator.

  “You knew about the gator?” McGill screamed. “Why the hell didn’t you share that with us before we walked all the way out there?”

  The deputy took off his hat and scratched his balding head. “Well, you were in such an all fire hurry, I didn’t want to slow you down.”

  “You idiot. That’s how people get hurt. And I don’t appreciate it one damn bit.”

  “Well it is kinda funny.”

  “How’s this for funny?” McGill stepped close to the deputy. “You and your men go out there and retrieve the body while my men and I comb these fields for debris. Oh yeah, and be careful, there’s an alligator out there.”

  “Why us? It’s not our investigation.”

  “Mostly because I said so. And I’m federal and you’re county. That means you serve at my leisure.”

  A crane arrived on a flatbed as McGill reached the Suburban.

  The three men removed their rubber boots and mud-coated coveralls, replacing them with spare coveralls from the Suburban. They put on clean boots and gathered around the tailgate waiting for McGill to assign duties.

  McGill pulled out his map and his compass. “Here we are.” He pointed to the map. “This way is opposite direction of flight so we’ll spread out.”

  In the distance, McGill noticed an old man on a tractor. “And walk through this guy’s field looking for debris.”

  The diesel engine on the crane roared to life just as McGill’s cell phone rang. Glancing at the crane with an annoyed expression, he answered the phone, “Pat McGill.”

  “Pat, it’s Jake.”

  Covering one ear to drown out the noise of the crane and turning his phone ear away from the crane, McGill yelled into the phone, “Jake, I can barely hear you.

  You’ll have to speak up.”

  Jake,shouted, “There’s been an accident.”

  “An accident—what kind of accident?”

  “At the Gulfstream hangar, it’s Dave.”

  “Dave—what about him?”

  “Pat, Dave’s dead. He’s dead. Did you hear me, Pat? Dave’s dead.”

  CHAPTER 29

  She opened her green eyes and Kaplan looked down into them. “Starting to feel better?”

  “A lot better. I’ll get out in a minute.”

  Kaplan sat on the edge of the tub while Annie finished soaking in the bathtub. He had noticed that whenever she felt bad, a hot bath always made her feel better.

  Her fair skin had turned rosy red from the steaming water. Her eyes were closed, as though she still felt the shock of the experience at the accident scene.

  On the way back to Annie’s house, Kaplan had had to stop his motorcycle twice so she could vomit. Before he could get his Harley to a full stop behind her house, she had jumped off and run inside.

  ”Would you like some wine to help you relax?” Kaplan asked.

  “Not right now,” she said. “Maybe later.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “How can people do that for a living?” Annie asked. “You know, going to all those accidents. Seeing all that carnage. The smell, the gore. Do you think they ever get used to it?”

  “I imagine it’s like anything else, over time you get desensitized to it.”

  “Do you think the investigators ever puke at accident scenes?”

  “I’m sure there are those who do and those who don’t. But I’ll bet the ones who do outnumber the ones who don’t.”

  He stood up and grabbed a towel as she pulled the plug on the tub. Handing her the towel, he said, “I think I’ll head to work and revise my statement on the accident. I didn’t make reference to the static noises I heard, so I think I’m going to correct that.” “That guy Pat, he was a real jerk, wasn’t he?”

  “I don’t think I’ll put him on my Christmas card list,” he laughed.

  * * * Kaplan turned on Gulfstream Road heading back to the TRACON. As he approached the gate at Gulfstream Aircraft, he noticed an ambulance and a rescue unit at the guard shack and saw Jake standing next to the ambulance, talking to the driver and the guard.

  The black Harley coasted up to the guard shack just as the emergency vehicles pulled away from the Gulfstream facility. Jake raised a hand to acknowledge him.

  Kaplan pulled off his helmet and said, “What’s going on?” “There was an accident at the recovery hangar. One of our investigators was killed.”

  “My God, how did it happen?”

  “A crane somehow lost hydraulic pressure and dropped the fuselage while he was underneath examining the damage, and it crushed him.”

  Jake motioned for Kaplan to follow him as he walked away from the guard shack. Kaplan pushed down the kickstand with his foot, dismounted his motorcycle, hung his helmet on the left mirror and walked over to Jake.

  * * * Jake stared out at the woods across from Gulfstream without really focusing on anything. The investigation seemed to be getting out of control, but only from his perspective. He had talked to Beth. She’s always asking questions about his work but she really didn’t understand the aviation industry and the lingo. She also couldn’t identify with his situation.

  He needed an insider, one who dealt with the same stuff every day. Someone he didn’t have to explain everything to in such painful detail. He usually had McGill to bounce things off of—but not now. He and McGill certainly weren’t seeing eye to eye right now. And worse still, he’d been withholding information from McGill about the investigation. He knew McGill would have no choice but to toss him from the investigation. That would damage his career, maybe irreparably. He needed a confidante. Someone he could trust. He didn’t know who, though.

  “I take it that investigators don’t usually die on the job?” Kaplan said quietly.

  Jake looked at him for a moment without speaking, and then replied, “You think?”

  Kaplan’s face was intent but calm. “Jake, this is high profile accident investigation. Now one of your investigators is dead. Sometimes accidents aren’t what they seem.”

  Jake studied Kaplan. He recalled Kaplan’s Special Forces background and his candor and professionalism during the investigation team’s interview. Somehow he sensed that Kaplan had the kind of honesty and integrity that he could trust and the intelligence that might be a help to him. He was the second person to tell him things aren’t what they seem.

  Jake figured he’d already put his career at risk so what would it matter now.

  “I’d like to run something by you, get your opinion. But disclosing information about an ongoing investigation could get me fired, or at the very least, removed from the investigation,” Jake said. “I shouldn’t talk about this, I know, but now I don’t know who else on the Go Team is safe to talk to—or whether I’d be putting them in danger if I do tell them. Hell, I may be putting you in danger if I tell you.”

  “Sounds like you’re between a rock and a hard place,” Kaplan said. He leaned against the front fender of the Mustang. “I’m a good listener and I can take care of myself.”

  Jake made a quick decision. He lowered his voice. “I’m about to make a huge breach of protocol on my investigation. Hear me out and maybe you’ll understand.”

  Jake began recounting to Kaplan all the things that had transpired so far in the investigation. He told him about the two mechanics in Dallas, the visit from the stranger in his hotel room, the man with the streaked hair and strange eyes, and the phone call from Dave right before the accident.

  Kaplan threw his head back, furrowed his eyebrows and said, “That’s a hell of a lot of coincidences, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, it is. But my gut instinct tells me I’m right. I just haven’t figured it all out yet and I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  Jake noticed the NTSB Suburban coming down Gulfstream Road. “Here comes Pat. H
e’s been pissed at me ever since I told him my theory the first time. He won’t like seeing you here either. Please don’t mention any of this to anyone. I want to stay on this investigation until it’s resolved.”

  Kaplan nodded. He looked at McGill then Jake. “My lips are sealed. Your boss, Pat. He has an Irish accent, doesn’t he? Where is he from?”

  “He grew up in Northern Ireland, Londonderry, he said. Then he and his cousin and aunt moved here to Savannah.”

  “Londonderry?”

  “You better go now,” Jake said as he walked over to the Suburban.

  McGill stared as Kaplan mounted his Harley and rode off. He glanced up at Jake and said, “What the hell did he want?”

  “Nothing. He was on his way back to the TRACON, like you told him to do, and saw the emergency vehicles and me, so he just stopped to ask.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “I just said there was an accident at Gulfstream.”

  “Okay, so tell me what the hell happened to Dave?”

  CHAPTER 30

  She sat in her dark house peering through the gap in the drapes, listening to the man on the other end of the phone. The afternoon sun beamed through the window and washed over the side of her face. Her hair was pulled tight into a bun on the top of her head.

  She hung up the phone and let it fall to the table. She stared out the window.

  After two minutes, she stood, turned around, and talked toward the darkness, “Mr. Jake Pendleton is going to cause us problems. We need to ensure he stays out of our business.”

  A large figure rose up from a chair and moved through the dark room toward the woman. He stepped into the light. A streak of white hair down the middle of his head. His irises—one blue, one brown.

  “I’ll take care of Mr. Pendleton and anyone else who gets in our way, Jillian.”

  “Have you located Sullivan yet?”

  “No, but I know he’s here, and I believe he’s talked to Pendleton too.”

  She raised her voice. “What would make you think that?”

  The assassin moved to the window, stuck out his hand and parted the drapes. The sunlight brightened the room. “How else could Mr. Pendleton have become suspicious so quickly?”

  “He’s supposed to be quite an adept investigator,” she replied.

  “No, he’s not that smart. He was tipped off about the bomb. This is one case he won’t get a chance to solve.”

  She grinned. “Well, this time knowledge comes with a price.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Jake and Beth listened to the music playing in the restaurant on River Street. Island reggae sounds of Bob Marley’s “Get Up, Stand Up,” filled the air, adding to the calypso flavor of the room. Bamboobladed ceiling fans turned slowly, enhancing the festive atmosphere inside the restaurant. Their waitress delivered a plate full of cracked conch fritters to the table, and poured them each a glass of red zinfandel, their favorite.

  Taking a bite of fritter, he looked at Beth, picked up his glass and took a sip. This might not be the ideal time and place, but he knew she wanted to hear about what he was doing.

  “I know it sounds coincidental but I have a gut feeling about this one,” he said. “There are too many suspicious circumstances to just dismiss the possibility of sabotage. The whole mechanic scene in Dallas, the man shot in the head. The missing mechanic who just happens to look like the guy we saw here, the one with Whataburger syndrome. The girlfriend drugged and unable to recall anything that happened for a two-day period. Dave is killed in some freak accident. And don’t forget the section of the Challenger missing from beneath the cockpit—”

  “Here’s what I think,” Beth said. “First of all, it’s Waardenburg’s Syndrome. Second, I think that the crazy man who broke into our room is the reason you’re so suspicious. He planted this whole sabotage thing in your head—for what reason? I don’t know. He wouldn’t give his name, he held a gun on us, and then he gave us some cryptic conspiracy theory with no proof. I think he was just some Irish crackpot—and I still think we should have called hotel security or the police. Let’s just say, for a minute, that all that stuff is true, how do you explain the midair?”

  “I can’t. That’s the one thing that keeps baffling me about this investigation. Without the midair, there are too many indicators to not to seriously consider sabotage. Without all the other factors, the Irish man, the two mechanics, Dave’s phone call and death, it would scream midair only,” Jake argued. “But for a sabotaged aircraft to have a midair while it’s falling out of the sky—well, the odds must be staggering.’

  The waitress returned with their order, cutting their conversation short. “Blackened grouper for the gentleman and fried shrimp for the lady.”

  She refilled their wine glasses and asked if she could get them anything else. When they said no, she smiled and returned to the kitchen.

  “Exactly. The odds are staggering. Too staggering. Somebody’s playing games with you, Jake. Can’t you see that?”

  “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

  “It’s horrible about Dave,” she said. “He was such a funny little man. The way he walked and talked reminded me of Danny DeVito. He even had that little yarmulke-looking bald spot on the back of his head. I’m going to miss him. What did Pat have to say about the accident at the hangar?”

  “Just that, it was an accident. The authorities said the crane either lost hydraulic pressure while Dave was under the fuselage, or the lever worked its way loose and Dave didn’t notice until it was too late. He apparently was alone.” Jake raised his finger. “That’s another thing that bothers me. Dave never worked without a crane operator before—so why start now?”

  “Maybe due to the urgency of the investigation, he was unable to.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “What happens next, Jake?”

  “Pat suspended the investigation for the rest of today, discussed it at an early organizational meeting and later announced it at the press conference. He’s giving everyone on the investigation the day off tomorrow for two reasons. One, because of Dave’s death. And two, because of the St Patrick’s Day crowd. But mostly, because of Dave. Pat said Carol took it hard.”

  Beth fell silent for a moment.

  Jake gazed over her shoulder out the window overlooking River Street and noticed a man staring at him through the window.

  The man they had seen in Barry’s Pub.

  The man who met the description of Ian McDonald, the mechanic in Dallas.

  The man with the white streak in his hair and the mismatched eyes.

  Jake stood and ran outside eager to put an end to the mystery surrounding this man. The man was gone.

  CHAPTER 32

  At that same moment, Pat McGill pulled the NTSB Suburban to the curb as his cell phone rang. The caller ID stated only Chatham County. He flipped open his phone. “Pat McGill.”

  “Mr. McGill, this is Jim Anderson, Chatham County Medical Examiner.”

  “Yes, Mr. Anderson, what can I do for you?”

  “It’s about Dave Morris. I found something you should know about.”

  “What was that?”

  “When I started cleaning Mr. Morris’ chest and removed his clothing, I noticed a lot of cuts and gashes and puncture wounds. Nothing I wouldn’t have expected to find, until I cleaned him thoroughly. Then I saw a puncture wound that looked a little different so I opened him up. That’s when I found it.”

  “Found what?”

  “Gunshot wound through the heart. Mr. Morris was dead before that airplane fell on him.”

  “A gunshot wound? Are you sure?”

  “Oh, yeah, I have the bullet right here to prove it. I bagged it and have it ready to send to ballistics. By law, I had to notify the local authorities so an investigation can be initiated.”

  “Very good, Mr. Anderson, I appreciate everything you’ve done. This is a federal investigation and as such, additional notification must be made to the FBI, actually they will have jurisdi
ction. Also, due to the sensitive nature of this investigation, I must ask you not to discuss this with anyone other than the local police investigator or me until the FBI arrives and views Mr. Morris’ body. This aircraft accident involved a very influential and controversial political figure and must be handled with considerable delicacy.”

  “Okay, Mr. McGill, I understand. What about next of kin?”

  “Mr. Morris was married but had no children. I called his wife and broke the news to her. She took it pretty hard. I won’t tell her he was shot until the FBI gives me the green light.”

  “All right, I appreciate that. Are you going to call the FBI?”Anderson asked.