Wicked Is the Whiskey: A Sean McClanahan Mystery (Sean McClanahan Mysteries Book 1) (14 page)

I was a few blocks from driving onto the expressway, when I heard the siren and saw the police lights flashing behind me.

I pulled over.

Chief Sarafino got out of her cruiser and approached me. I rolled down my truck window.

“To what do I owe this honor?” I said.

“License and registration,” she said.

I gave her my license and registration.

“Your right brake light is out,” she said. “And you ran a stop sign a block back.”

“I didn’t see a stop sign.”

“Wait here,” she said.

She went to her cruiser and called my plate in. I heard my name on the police radio.

Five minutes later she returned.

“Sign here,” she said.

I looked at the ticket. She wrote me up for the brake light and reckless driving.

“You’re fining me $347.00?”

She smiled.

“Take it to the magistrate,” she said.

“You’re sore that I didn’t make a pass at you the night you drank me under the table?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“That I talked to the fisherman who saw what really happened to Preston?” I said. “That would be Peter Hartley, your godfather?”

She said nothing.

“Is it that Victoria Hall is distributing massive quantities of heroin from an operation within your jurisdiction, that she killed Preston and that you’re helping to cover all of it up?”

Her face turned hot red.

“You have no idea what you’re doing, McClanahan. You’re interference is going to be costly.”

“Chief, there are people in this town who love you and who want to help you. Let's join forces and stop this thing now.”

She glared at me — as though debating whether or not to shoot me.

“Here is what is going to happen,” I said. “I’m going to bring Hall down. Why don't you tell me how she has directed this thing from the start? I know a few judges and I think we can get you a modest sentence for helping to break this thing —”

“Leave,” she said.

“C’mon, chief.”

“Get the hell out of here unless you want me to impound your car for the alleged transportation of drugs,” she said.

“Have it your way, but I'm bringing Hall’s operation down. I don't want to have to bring you down with it.”

The chief got into her car and punched the accelerator, spitting gravel against my legs and my truck.

I didn’t mind though.

It was way less painful than the hangover she gave me.

I stopped by the drug treatment center to see how Erin was doing. 

She was wrapped in blankets shivering, yet her hair was damp and sweat was dripping down her pale face.

“How are you faring?” I said.

“I can understand why addicts keep going back to heroin,” she said. “It is one way to make this awfulness go away.”

“Is there anything we can do?” I said.

She shook her head, then jumped from the bed and moved quickly to the bathroom.

“Excuse me,” she said, as she closed the door and vomited for what seemed like 10 minutes.

I heard the commode flush and the water in the sink turn on and off. She walked slowly to the bed crawled back into the blankets. I wanted to help her so badly but didn’t know how.

“I’m spending a lot of time in there these days,” she said. “What have you learned?”

“That information can wait until you’re feeling better.”

“I want to know now.”

I brought her up to speed on everything I knew.

“Good,” she said, “you’re making progress.”

She jumped up again and ran to the bathroom for more of the same. I waited for her to return and jump back under the covers.

“You’re at the peak of pain and agony right now,” I said. “Hopefully, the worst will be behind you in the next few days. You’re incredibly courageous.”

“You’re courageous and John was courageous,” she said. “All I did was get abducted and injected with heroin. I hope to be better soon so I can help you bring the people to justice who killed John.”

She lay on her back and held her forehead with her hand, clearly fighting another bout of nausea.

It was hard for me to see her in such pain, but that motivated me to get back to work.

I left her and headed back to Maryville to keep figuring out how I would bring down Victoria Hall.

It was nearly midnight when I got to Maryanne. I parked in the same spot above Preston’s facility. I opened up my thermos and poured a cup of fresh coffee in the canister cup.

I pulled out my binoculars and looked down to the building that housed Hall’s heroin operation. It was well lighted. Just like clockwork, cars were going in and out at a brisk pace with license plates from all over.

This time, I wasn’t as interested in the cars couriering the heroin out of the building as I was intent on figuring out how Hall was getting the all of her cash out. There had to be vast amounts in small bills — the way addicts typically would buy their stamp bags — and lots of money in small bills takes up lots of space.

The next two or three hours went like molasses. I never much enjoyed stakeout work — never had much patience for it, as the spare time caused my mind to wander to random memories and personal failures and lots of other things I didn’t much want to think about.

Such as the night my might marriage ended.

I fell in love with Lauren the first time I set eyes on her walking in front of the Cathedral of Learning on Pitt’s campus. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. I was never a shy person but I still don’t know what compelled me to approach her and ask her out on the spot, but I did it. And I don’t know why she accepted, but she did.

We married our first year out of school, as I became a rookie cop and she began her nursing career. We bought a cozy home in the city’s Brookline neighborhood. Lauren worked on her master’s in anesthesiology while I moved up the ranks. We were both busy, but when I became a homicide detective all balance was lost in our marriage. The truth is, in time, I was more committed to my job and catching murderers than I was to Lauren.

After several heated arguments over my long hours, I agreed to change my ways. Lauren had prepared a wonderful dinner at home, where we planned to work out our future and plans to begin our family.

I remember pulling in the driveway that night, just before dusk. I was calm and happy and eager to spend the night with the girl I fell in love with at first sight a decade before.

But my police scanner spit at me just as I pulled into my driveway. There was a jumper on the Homestead High Level Bridge — right down the road from our Squirrel Hill home. I quickly determined I could get there faster than anyone — and that I could defuse the situation and save a life better than one of our beat cops.

I rolled down the window and placed my light onto the roof. I dropped the transmission into drive and gunned it. I saw her look at me through the front window as my wheels spun over the dried salt and I sped up the road.

He stood on a concrete pier, one of four that jutted a few feet above the railing at equal points in the center of the bridge. His back was to me. He stood facing the cold, black water of the Monongahela, as though he were on a dark stage about to dance. It took me two hours to talk him into coming up onto the bridge — and only because I lied to him and told him I had his wife on the cell phone. I told him she said she loved him and begged for him to talk to her.

As soon as he climbed over the rail, I handed him the phone, then tackled him and cuffed him, while he called me a liar and told me he wanted to die.

I dreaded what would await me at home. I was not surprised to find the lights out and Lauren gone forever —

A box truck exited the garage. Big Tony was driving. Little Terry sat in the passenger’s seat. 

They drove slowly up the drive and into the town. I coasted down the hill, then gently turned the key as I got down to a side road. I moved as quietly as possible as I shadowed them. I sat behind a building at a stop sign until I could see them exit the entry ramp onto Rt. 51, then I sped through town and onto the ramp to get behind them.

They continued driving north, heading toward Pittsburgh. After 20 minutes, some six miles before downtown Pittsburgh, it turned right onto Lebanon Church Road. Tony was driving at a modest pace — just a few miles above the speed limit. The two-lane road allowed me to see them a quarter mile ahead with ease. I sat back and just followed.

We went four or five miles this way. We were heading back toward the river — back toward McKeesport and Homestead, towns that were just miles upriver from Maryanne. As we drove the West Mifflin airport came into view on our left — it was a small airport that catered mostly to private planes and corporate jets.

At the next stop light, the truck turned left and headed toward a checkpoint leading into the airport gate. I caught up close enough to see them enter the gate — through the binoculars I could see Tony flash a badge or ID, then he was allowed in to drive onto the tarmac.

Through the fence, I could see the truck move slowly toward what appeared to be a private jet some quarter mile from the gatehouse. It pulled up on the backside of the plane, but the plane was now blocking my view.   

I drove further along the fence to get a better view of what they were doing. I found a clear view just as Tony opened the back of the truck. There were two big men in the back of the truck who began unloading thick white laundry bags onto the bed of transporter vehicle. It took them 20 minutes to move the full payload, which had to include 50 or 60 of the large bags.

The transporter moved from the back of the truck to the cargo area of the plane, which looked like a small-to-midsize jet of some kind. It took about 15 or 20 minutes for the two men in the back of the truck to load the cargo onto the plane.

When complete, the two men climbed back into the back of the truck. Tony closed the back doors then he and Terry got into the cab of the truck and left.

For the first time since Erin Miller walked into the pub, I was about to get lucky.

“That plane there?” said the red-haired female security night guard, pointing to a small jet plane.

Her grey uniform was a size too big. Her face was round, her hair bright red. She was painting her fingernails pink as we talked.

“That's the one,” I said, talking through the small window in the tower. “What can you tell me about it?”

“That’s John Preston’s company plane,” she said. “A shame what happened to John in the river. He was really nice.”

“When did you see him last?” I said.

“It’s been well over a year,” she said. “More like two years. Before that he used it all the time to fly to his seminars. I tried to get my boyfriend, Billy, to go to one in Pittsburgh, but he refused. Billy’s a welder. We're engaged and will be married next year.” 

She blew on her freshly painted nails on her left hand, then showed me the ring on her finger. 

“I know it's just a cubic zirconia, but Billy will get me a real one after we finally make it legal,” she said. “We've been dating for seven years, you know.”

“It's very nice,” I said. “If John hasn’t been using the plane, has it been sitting idle?”

“Not at all,” she said, whispering. “Since he stopped using it, it’s been going out lots.”

“Do you know where it goes?”

“Sure,” she said.

She picked up a log book, flipped through it, then pointed to some entries.

“Cayman Islands,” she said. “It used to go about once a week but now it goes every single night, then comes back the next day.” 

“Did Preston every fly there?”

“Nope, never once since I’ve been here and that’s been six years,” she said. “Every time the plane went to the Caymans, it went without Preston.”

“How often has it been going to there?” I said.

“Well, I’d say the regular flights started about four years ago or so.”

“How many people are on board?”

“Only one,” she said. “The pilot. His name is Carter. Bob Carter. That's all he does. One run down, one run back. Nice work for what they pay him, which is a lot.”

“You know Bob Carter?” I said.

“Sure. Everybody does. He works for Preston's company. Nobody likes him though. He isn't very talkative — unless he's drinking. But when he drinks he gets nasty, so nobody likes him. He's really handsome though — tall and good looking. Anyhow, he spends most of his time on that plane just waiting. It used to be a sedan would come and load big bags onto the plane that were in the trunk. Then a van. Now they come in a big truck with lots and lots of bags.”

“When does the plane leave?” I said.

“Should be leaving soon. Usually before midnight.”

“Do they declare you what they are hauling?”

“Nope,” she said. “They don't have to declare anything, the plane being private and all.”

“How is it possible for a truck to pass by only one guard, then load contents directly onto a plane?” I said. “I thought everything has got stricter since the 911 attacks?”

“That’s a laugh,” she said. “If I were a terrorist, I’d get a hangar at a small, private airport. After a few months, nobody asks you any questions or much cares what you do. Pretty soon, you come here in your vehicle, flip your security badge, then enter the tarmac. Nobody checks nothing.”

“That’s surprising,” I said.

“Look,” she continued, comfortable in her expertise, “rich people don't like to wait, and this is an airport where the rich people and the corporate people and coddled people of every kind park their private planes. When they want to fly, they fly — right away. That's just how it is.”

“You're telling me there’s no way for me or anyone to find out what the two men in the truck just loaded into John Preston's company jet?”

“I didn't tell you that,” she said, smiling. “I meant there is no formal way to do so.”

“Then how might I find out?”

“Just ask.”

“Ask who?” I said.

“Me. Now you can't tell my fiancé Billy, of course, but when Billy cheated on me once I got back at him by having a little fling with Bob.”

“Bob Carter, the pilot of Preston's plane?”

“That's right.”

“You know what was just loaded onto Preston's private jet?” I said.

“Of course,” she said, leaning close to me. “It's money. Bags and bags of money. Like I said, Bob talks a lot when he drinks.”

And that’s how I learned how Victoria Hall was moving all of her cash out of the country.