JO01 - Guilty or Else (14 page)

My stomach was already doing somersaults listening to Sica speak casually about how Karadimos planned to have me whacked. But now the sight of Big Jake eating donuts made me want to puke.

C H A P T E R 
20

I got up early Monday
morning, had coffee, and took off for Long Beach Airport. I drove south on Lakewood Blvd., blowing by the massive Douglas Aircraft factory as I headed for the private aviation service center, Executive Aviation Company, on the south side of the field. Turning right on Spring Street I saw their sign bolted high on the side of a modern concrete building adjacent to runway 25L. I pulled into the parking area in front of the buff-colored structure and went to the reception counter in the lobby.

I remembered Executive Aviation’s calendar hanging in Karadimos’s office and figured that his business jet could be hangared there. If so, I might be able to find out if the jet plane had been flown back from Sacramento on the day of the murder.

I walked through the lobby and followed a sign pointing the way to the maintenance office. I went through a door and walked into the large, spotless, well-lit hangar. Floods high in the ceiling beamed down on five or six jets parked in the building. The airplanes were magnificent, all regal and sparkling, poised to propel you across the skies at a moment’s notice, streaking through the air at a velocity faster than a bullet shot from a high-powered gun. I strolled around and between the planes, running my hand over their glossy surfaces.

My reverie—Ace O’Brien of the Skies—shattered when I heard a shout.

“Hey, you, what are you doing in here?”

I turned toward the shout. “Looking for the maintenance manager.”

“That’s Fred Vogel. He’s in his office. Back there,” the voice said. I looked where he pointed, saw a glass-enclosed cubicle at the back of the hangar, and moved toward it. Inside, I saw a man sitting at a desk, talking on the phone while he puffed on a Marlboro. I could see the distinctive red and white flip-top box on his desk. I knocked on the door. He hung up.

“Come in!” he yelled.

I entered. “You Fred Vogel?”

“That’s me. How can I help you?” He squinted at me with one eye.

I didn’t think he’d give the information I needed to just anybody who walked in off the street, so I had to get clever. I pulled my insurance man’s business card out of my wallet and handed it to Vogel. “I’m Mr. Biddle. Here on official business.”

He handed the card back. “You’ll have to see Mr.

Damski, he’s the GM. He’s in charge of stuff like buying insurance.”

“No. That’s not why I’m here. You see, I’m doing a survey on…” I took an old phone bill out of my pocket and pretended to study it. “One Andreas Karadimos. He’s applied for a large life policy, double indemnity for accidental death.

I understand he keeps his airplane here and my company wants to be sure that it’s safe to fly, well maintained and all that.” I had Vogel’s attention and I almost started to believe the story myself. “I’m sure you can understand why we have to check on these things. Do you know this Karadimos person?”

“Karadimos, insurance? What’s this all about?”

“I want to see the logbooks for Karadimos’s plane.”

“What are you trying to pull?”

“Nothing. I’m an insurance investigator, doing my job.”

“What kind of horseshit are you feeding me, anyway?”

“Look, Mr. Vogel—may I call you Fred?” I’d try the friendly approach, first name basis. Always works. Turn on the old charm and smile. “I really need to check the flight logs.”

He stubbed his cigarette out in a rusty piston sitting upside down on his desk, and stood. “Listen to me, Mac. I don’t know who you are. I don’t give a damn what you want. Just get the hell outta here.”

So much for the charm. “OK, the name’s O’Brien. I have to see about a flight that Karadimos took to Sacramento.”

Vogel picked up the Marlboro box, opened it, and fiddled inside it with his finger. “This is about the girl’s murder, ain’t it?”

“Yeah,” I said. “How’d you know?”

“Word gets around.” He dropped the empty red and white box on his desk and with one swift stroke, smashed it like a bug. “You’re not a cop or you would’ve shown me your buzzer right off the bat. Besides, the cops were already here. You a lawyer or something?”

“Yeah, I’m defending an innocent man.”

“Why should I help you? I already told you the cops have been here. They checked the logbook to see if the plane flew back that Saturday. No flight was made on that day.” He patted his shirt pocket a few times, the one under his nametag.

“I want to check it myself.”

“You got a cigarette?”

“No.”

“You want to see the logs, go get a court order. Now beat it. I’m busy.”

I could issue a subpoena, but Karadimos would find out. Records could be changed and the logbook could disappear.

“Listen, Fred, a subpoena would take time.” I laid a twenty on his desk. “I’d have to pay a filing fee. Why should the county get another fee?”

He looked down at the double sawbuck for just a split-second. His hand shot out like Wyatt Earp drawing down on the Clantons. The bill was gone without a trace. Thank God for the horserace Saturday. I had a little cash to spread around.

“Yeah, the bastards will nickel and dime you to death,” he said.

Fred pulled a leather-bound binder from a bookcase behind him. Spreading it out on his desk, he flipped through the pages.

“Here it is.” He ran his finger down a column. I glanced over his shoulder. “See, the jet left LGB a week ago last Friday. Flew directly to SAC. Total time from engines’ start until shutdown is recorded.”

He took a pencil and paper out of the drawer and began to figure. “One-point-one hours, that’s okay. The Citation cruises at four hundred-twenty miles per hour, Sacramento is about four hundred miles away, let’s see climb out and landing. Yeah that’s it.” Vogel kept working the numbers on the paper. “Returned Sunday, point-nine hours. Yeah, a little tailwind. Total time two hours.”

“No flights on Saturday?”

“None…you sure you don’t have a smoke?”

“I quit,” I said. “Was there only one pilot on this flight? No copilot?”

“Nope, no copilot. That’s the good thing about the Cessna Citation. The plane’s single-pilot rated.”

“What if the pilot didn’t log the flight?” I asked.

“That’s against the rules. It would be a federal violation.”

“Yeah, I guess a murderer wouldn’t want to piss off the FAA. Could get in big trouble.” I shook my head. “How do you check to make sure that all flights are logged?”

A smirk surfaced on his face. “The hours on the Hobbs Meter in the plane wouldn’t match the hours in the logbook. His tone was sarcastic. “I know what you’re thinking, but the cops checked that too. Sorry, pal.”

“The Hobbs Meter is some kind of hour meter, records the time of the flight, right?”

“Yep.”

“Could someone monkey with it? Change the time?” It didn’t seem to me that unhooking an hour meter would be a big deal. Used car dealers unhooked and rolled back odometers all the time.

“Look, O’Brien, your twenty-dollar service fee didn’t entitle you to my time for the rest of the day. Now be a nice guy and take a powder.”

“Vogel, my ass is on the line. Now, goddammit, couldn’t someone just roll back the meter?”

“I guess they could. If they knew what they were doing. Yeah, it’s possible.” He thought for a few seconds. “Wouldn’t work though—there’s an additional Hobbs Meter on the plane, hidden.”

“What do you mean, hidden?”

He sat down, folded his hands on the desk. “Karadimos has the plane on lease-back to us, means we can rent the jet out by the hour. We rent it to various charter companies, split the profit from these flights with the owner, Karadimos. We installed the other meter to keep these charter boys honest. Nobody’s cheated yet.”

“Did you check the secret meter after the Sacramento flight?”

“No, of course not. We don’t check the meter after the owner uses the plane. He’s not renting it. He owns it,” Vogel said.

“Let’s check it; can’t hurt.”

“I told you, I’m busy. Now get the hell outta here.” He started to climb out of his chair.

I laid another twenty on the desk.

His eyes focused on the bill for a moment before he ripped it from the desk. Then in a flash, he opened a drawer, took out a flashlight, a note pad, and a screwdriver.

“Wait here.” He darted out of his office.

I watched him through the glass window. He rushed to the starboard side of a blue and white Cessna Citation and with the screwdriver, he popped open a little trap door under the wing, bent over, peered inside, and wrote on the pad. He was back in the office in less than three minutes.

“Okay, sport,” he said. “I think it’s a waste of time, but it’s your nickel.”

He ran his finger down the open page of the book and stopped at the last entry. I peered over his shoulder again.

“One thousand-sixty-seven hours, total time on the plane.” He glanced at the paper in his other hand. His jaw dropped. He looked up at me. “One thousand-sixty-nine hours,” he said. “Two hours. I’ll be damned. Two hours not logged.”

We stared at each other. Vogel scratched the back of his head. I thought about the extra two hours, the exact time of a round trip to Sacramento. It would be an awfully big coincidence if the plane flew exactly two hours, off the books, on any other day than the Saturday of the murder.

“When was the last time the logbook and the hidden meter matched?”

Vogel dashed to the gray metal cabinet next to the bookcase and pulled out a file. “The weekend before the Sacramento flight. I remember that particular charter. Had to stock the plane with extra booze. The group was a bunch of Mormons flying to Cedar City, Utah for a family reunion.”

“Any flights after that?” I asked.

He was a little more humble and I was a whole lot more elated. “Nope. Guess not.”

“Who’s the pilot? And where can I find him.”

Vogel glanced at the book. “He’s not one of ours. Works full time for Karadimos, but we keep copies of the licenses of all the pilots who fly out of here.”

He looked at me and laughed. “You should know about that. It’s an insurance regulation, Mr. Biddle.”

I don’t know why, but I laughed too.

“What’s the pilot’s name?”

“Ron Fischer. I’ll you get his address and phone number.”

I left the hangar and ran to my car. It took me five minutes to find a payphone that worked. I didn’t want to use the telephone in Executive Aviation’s lobby; too many eavesdropping ears. There was a phone booth at the Union Oil gas station on the corner of Lakewood and Spring Street.

The door wouldn’t close, and the booth was filthy, sticky stuff on the handle and fast-food wrappers scattered about. But I got a dial tone when I picked up the receiver. I put a dime in the slot and dialed Fischer’s number. An operator came on and told me to deposit another nickel. I did, and asked the operator to stay on the line. I wanted to make another call if no one answered. After six rings, I gave the operator my office number. Rita answered on the first ring.

“Oh Boss, I’m glad you called. We’ve got trouble.” She sounded frantic.

“What’s the matter?”

“Someone broke in here, probably during the night. Whoever it was trashed the office. It’s a mess. Papers and stuff tossed everywhere. Jimmy, someone went to a lot of trouble. Who’d do such a thing?”

I immediately thought of Karadimos and his thugs. But maybe I was getting a little paranoid. Could’ve been anybody: kids looking for a couple of bucks, a burglar, or some guy down on his luck, trying to make a living the hard way.

“Did you call the police?” I asked Rita.

“No, I was waiting for you to call. And there’s some big fat guy here. He’s sitting at your desk. His name’s Jake. Says he knows you. He’s kinda scary.”

Big Jake? Oh Christ, you’d think they would’ve told me ahead of time that he’d be coming to the office. This could be a problem. “Jake’s okay. He’s on our side,” I said with a sigh.

“Do you want me to call the police about the break-in?”

“Did they take anything, the typewriter, stuff like that?”

After a short pause, she said, “Who’d want to take this junk?”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“Just the file on your desk.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The only thing missing.”

“What! The Rodriguez file is gone?”

“I was going to file it away for you, but now it’s gone.”

“Don’t call the police and don’t clean up yet. I’ll be at the office in twenty-five minutes.” The file hadn’t really held much—police report, crime scene pictures, and some notes I’d jotted down, my thoughts about the case, but Karadimos didn’t know that—until now.

My heart sank when I saw the mess. Everything broken, destroyed. I tiptoed through the junk, stopping once to pick up a framed photo of the old 1951 Los Angeles Angels minor league baseball team. The frame was shattered and the autographed picture had been torn. Maybe I could glue it back together somehow. My dad had given me the picture on my thirteenth birthday along with a cap and jacket. It wasn’t much, but it’s about all I had to remember him by.

Rita wasn’t at her desk, but Big Jake stood by the window, looking out. “Hi, Jake, big mess, huh? Where’s Rita?”

“I sent her for some donuts and a bottle of Jack Daniels.”

“How long ago did she leave?”

He wore a blank look on his face. “’Bout fifteen minutes ago. When your visitors came. I didn’t want her around while they were here. She’s a foxy little babe.”

“What visitors?”

“A couple bruisers. Karadimos sent them here to discuss a few things with you. They mistook me for you. Imagine that.”

A knot formed in my stomach. “What’d they say?”

“Not much. I explained to them who I was and what I’m doing here.”

“Then they took off? Just left?”

“Yeah, they were in a hurry. The guy that could still walk had to get the other guy to the hospital, fast.”

“Jesus, you beat them up?” I said. “Two of ’em?” I looked at Jake. Christ, there wasn’t a mark on him.