Chapter 27
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Houston, Texas
An hour later, they were airborne over the Gulf Coast. Drake handled the Pilatus with his usual competence, threading between thunderstorms that dotted the route to Florida.
Through the windscreen, Flint watched the Texas coastline give way to open water.
To the north, were green marshlands along the coasts of Louisiana and Mississippi, although he couldn’t see them from this distance.
Two hours later, Drake brought them down smoothly at the small field on Davis Islands that catered to private aircraft. Within minutes they were taxiing toward the terminal.
Florida’s March warmth surrounded them like a cozy blanket when they stepped off the plane. Drake arranged for fuel and secured the aircraft while Flint located the rental SUV.
They drove through sparse afternoon traffic along Davis Boulevard. Small businesses lined the sidewalks and blurred past the windows as they navigated toward the residential neighborhood.
The Murphy residence was a modest single-story house with a well-maintained yard and a narrow slice of view of Hillsborough Bay.
Pink stucco walls and a tile roof marked it as typical Florida construction from the late 1900s.
A sprinkler system kept the St. Augustine grass green, and bougainvillea climbed a trellis beside the front door.
Drake parked the rental two blocks down and across the street under the shade of a massive live oak.
Flint studied the neighborhood. Quiet residential area dotted with similar stucco houses, each with its own variation of tropical landscaping.
Retirement-age neighbors were tending gardens, but no children played in the yards.
A few parked cars sat baking in driveways, some doorbell cameras on a few of the homes, but nothing screamed serious active surveillance in the area.
They walked up the sidewalk to the front door. Flint pressed the doorbell and heard chimes echo inside the house.
“If you’re selling something, I’m not interested.”
The woman was in her early sixties. Graying hair. Tired eyes. She made no move to unlock the screen door or invite them inside.
Flint gave her his most disarming smile. “Mrs. Murphy? I’m Michael Flint. This is Alonzo Drake. We’d like to ask you about your late husband.”
Her expression hardened. “Tom’s been dead for years. Let the man rest in peace.”
“I understand,” he said with compassion. “We’re investigating a bus accident your husband witnessed in Ravenswood, Illinois. Before you moved to Florida.”
Helen Murphy’s face went pale. Her grip tightened on the door frame.
“Can we come inside?” Flint asked respectfully.
She seemed ready to refuse, but something caused her to relent. She unlocked the door and stood aside as first Flint and then Drake crossed the threshold.
The open floor plan living room was decorated with photographs of Tom Murphy’s skydiving adventures.
Action shots of him in freefall, arms spread against blue sky and white clouds.
Images of him teaching students, both feet planted firmly on airport tarmac.
More pictures of him standing beside small aircraft, grinning with abundant confidence.
The room was a shrine to a good man who’d died doing what he loved.
Or so it appeared.
From long experience, Flint knew Helen Murphy wouldn’t tell him anything unless she wanted to. So he tried to warm her up a bit.
“Mrs. Murphy, any chance we could get a glass of water?” Flint asked.
She hesitated but relented. “Sure.”
When she returned from the kitchen with two cold water bottles, Flint thanked her and took a big swig as if she’d offered him an elixir from the fountain of youth. Drake showed similar appreciation for her hospitality and engaged her in small talk for a few moments.
Flint waited for a lull in the conversation before he said, “We’ve heard that Tom owned a skydiving business.”
“Murphy’s Sky Adventures. He did local instruction but also took experienced jumpers on trips to other locations.” Helen’s pride had surpassed her grief at some point, which was helpful. “Mexico, Honduras, Belize, Cuba. Uncommon places for aerial photography and skydiving. People loved it.”
Drake asked. “Can Americans travel to Cuba?”
“The regulations were tricky, but Tom knew how to handle the paperwork. He loved skydiving in Cuba and students always wanted to go.” She paused, her expression growing troubled. “Actually, he’d just returned from a Cuba trip not long before he died.”
“Yeah?” Flint encouraged her to continue without being too eager.
Helen nodded. “That trip was different, though.”
“Different how?”
“Tom was quiet when he came home. Distracted. He kept checking his phone and looking out the windows. I asked him about it. He said it was nothing. The group had been difficult clients, that’s all.
” Helen twisted her wedding ring. “But Tom had dealt with difficult clients many times before. This time, whatever happened there, it really bothered him.”
“Is there any paperwork from that trip? I’d like to find Tom’s passengers and talk to them about it,” Flint said earnestly.
Helen shook her head. “I sold the business soon after Tom died. Skydiving wasn’t my thing, it was his. I didn’t keep anything from the business except the photos you see here. No reason to.”
“What about the new owners? Would they still have the old paperwork, do you think?” Flint asked.
“Probably not. They went out of business and liquidated everything a couple of years later. Bad economy, they said,” Helen replied. “It’s all gone as far as I know.”
“No worries.” Flint gave her a friendly nod. “We’re looking for information about that bus accident. What did Tom say about it at the time?”
“Tom never talked about that,” Helen said, wagging her head slowly. “He’d had accidents before, but no one had ever died. He was shaken up for quite a while. Tom said that one haunted him.”
“He didn’t tell you what happened?” Flint pressed. He couldn’t imagine Tom had said absolutely nothing to his wife about such a serious situation.
“A young woman with three children. She must have stumbled into the path of the bus. Tom tried to save her. He stopped and jumped out of the bus and stayed with her until the ambulance came. But she was dead when they arrived. Too seriously injured they said.” Helen twisted her wedding ring.
“He blamed himself for not being able to do more. He said she was really messed up. Her face was horribly crushed. He said he couldn’t get that mangled image out of his head. ”
Flint nodded as if he’d already known about the condition of the body.
“You changed your names after you moved here?” Flint asked. He paused to allow her time to compose herself.
“People blamed him. Newspapers and such said he should have done more to save her. Made those three children orphans.” Helen’s voice carried old pain and her eyes filled with tears.
“They kept calling. Threatening him. We changed our name and moved away from the only home we’d ever known just to get some peace. ”
Flint noted the details and gave her a bit of time to compose herself. “Mrs. Murphy, do you think your husband’s skydiving death was really an accident?”
Helen was quiet for a longer moment. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
“Tom was the most careful instructor I ever knew. He checked and double-checked everything, every time. He’d never lost a single skydiver. Not one. In all those years.” She shook her head. “Both main and reserve chutes failed? That doesn’t happen by accident to someone like Tom.”
Flint nodded in sympathy. “Sometimes, the most experienced people get complacent, though. Or distracted. Like when Amelia Earhart ran out of gas. No one thought that could possibly have happened to such an experienced pilot.”
Tears welled in her eyes and threatened to spill over as she continued to shake her head. “Maybe so, but not Tom. He took his responsibilities as leader very, very seriously.”
“I understand.” Flint waited a few moments before he changed the subject. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?”
“I don’t know. He never mentioned anything like that to me. But he was always looking over his shoulder after we moved away.”
Helen stood up and walked to the window to stare at the water. Sunlight slanted through the glass, casting shadows across the tile floor. In the distance, sailboats moved like white triangles against the water. “The day before he died, he got an upsetting phone call.”
Drake shifted forward in his chair. “Who was calling?”
“He said it was reporters that had tracked us down.” Helen turned to face them. “But Tom was scared. Really scared. More scared than I’d ever seen him.”
“Scared of what?” Flint asked.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. He wouldn’t say. The more I asked, the angrier he became until I just dropped it.”
Car doors slammed outside interrupting the conversation. Drake moved quickly to the window.
“Three vehicles. We need to go now,” Drake said quietly.
Flint stood up. “Mrs. Murphy, is there a back exit?”
“Through the kitchen.” Her voice shook, but she waved them out the back exit.
Flint and Drake hustled around the alley toward the rental. They jumped inside and Drake pulled out, traveling away from the Murphy residence.
Drake said, “Why kill the bus driver? Doesn’t make sense, does it?”
“Not yet,” Flint replied. “But now we know there’s something off about that bus accident and his death, too. We also know where to look. Let’s get back to the Pilatus.”
Drake was already rolling steadily toward the airport. “Miami first?”