Chapter 17 Jo
Jo
Friday
“I first noticed this car parked here Wednesday morning, when I drove into work,” said Frank Nolan.
“It caught my eye because it was left way off at the edge of the lot, nowhere near the hangars, where most of our pilots like to park. We have only twenty-eight private aircraft based here, so I know all the local pilots and their cars. But I’ve never seen this car here before. ”
Nolan seemed like the kind of man who would recognize the cars of all the pilots who flew in and out of this small municipal airport in Belfast, Maine.
For the past twenty-two years, he had been manager of the airport, which was used primarily by single-engine planes, most of them owned by local pilots.
In a community this small, those pilots all knew each other’s names and aircraft, and an unfamiliar vehicle parked too long on the property would be noticed by all.
“Then I drove in this morning, and I saw that car was still here. So I started asking around,” said Nolan. “Found out that you folks up the coast were looking for this particular blue MG. Was it stolen?”
Jo didn’t answer. It made her uncomfortable to lie, and silence was better than blatant dishonesty. This was the problem with doing favors for the Martini Club; those people slid so naturally into deception that they thought nothing of asking her to do so as well.
“Well, whoever left it here took good care of it,” Nolan said, eyeing the exterior of the vehicle. “No dents, no scratches.” He peered through the driver’s window. “Spotless inside too.”
The car was indeed pristine both inside and out, which was what Jo would expect, since it was Ingrid Slocum’s vehicle, the one she drove when she wanted something sportier than their Mercedes SUV.
She pulled on latex gloves, gave the door handle a tug, and was surprised to find it unlocked.
She opened the door and found another surprise: The car key had been left on the driver’s seat.
She glanced around the interior but found that nothing of interest had been left behind.
Clearly, Ingrid had expected her vehicle to be found, and she’d made its recovery as convenient as possible, without the need for a locksmith or a tow truck.
Jo pulled the trunk release and circled around to the rear.
Hesitated for an instant before glancing inside, because the memory of finding Karen O’Brien’s dead body was still too fresh, too disturbing.
No body inside. Just clean carpet and a roadside emergency kit. But of course: Ingrid would be ready for all contingencies.
She closed the trunk and turned to Frank Nolan. “You said you first noticed the car when you arrived at work on Wednesday. What time was that?”
“Around seven a.m.”
“And the night before, what time did you leave?”
“Around five.”
“The airport was unmanned all night?”
“This isn’t a busy airport, ma’am, especially this time of year, with all the summer folks gone. We have only sixty or seventy operations a week, most of it general aviation, and our beacon operates sunrise to sunset.”
“What about after sunset? Could someone take off from here?”
“Sure. Like I said, we’ve got twenty-eight single-engine planes parked here most of the time. A pilot could take his bird up for a spin in the evening, if he was so inclined.”
“Without filing a flight plan?”
Nolan shrugged. “There’s no requirement to file a flight plan. Most of our pilots don’t bother, unless they have a reason they want to be tracked. Or they plan to operate in commercial airspace.”
Jo scanned their surroundings, searching for any security cameras. “This area isn’t covered by CCTV?”
“No reason to, out here. We have CCTV for the runway and the hangars. You know, aircraft security. And to record any, um, incidents.”
“You mean like plane crashes.”
He winced. “Haven’t had one of those since 2012. Knock on wood.”
“Can I see all your runway footage for Tuesday afternoon? I want to know if this car’s driver took off from this airport.”
He nodded. “I’ve got all that in the office. I’ll show you.”
Nolan had said it was not a busy airport, and the surveillance video certainly confirmed it. Tuesday afternoon in particular had been quiet, with only two takeoffs and three landings, all by single-engine planes. Nolan was familiar with the aircraft, as well as their pilots.
“These are all local guys,” he said, narrating the video.
“Decent pilots, all of them. Although that one there . . .” He pointed to a white Cessna with red stripes as it took off.
“He had a stroke two years ago. I thought he’d have to give it all up, but he’s back in the air.
Every time he takes off, I have to admit, my heart’s in my throat.
” He fast-forwarded through the footage.
Four o’clock. Four thirty. Five p.m. The only movement on the screen was the occasional bird, and a flurry of autumn leaves tumbling across the tarmac.
“Does this runway camera record around the clock?”
“Yes, ma’am. Even when there’s no one here manning the facility.”
“And you left the property at five p.m. on Tuesday.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you know what time sunset was that day?”
He pulled up the info on his desktop computer. “On that date, it was five forty-one p.m.”
“So after you left the facility, there was over half an hour of daylight remaining. A plane could have landed or departed during that time.”
“Could have.”
Jo’s gaze suddenly fixed on the screen. “And did,” she said.
Nolan’s attention snapped back to the video, where an aircraft was touching down on the runway. It was a white twin engine with a black undercarriage. The time stamp said 5:26 p.m.
“That looks like a Piper,” said Nolan as the aircraft rolled to a stop at the end of the runway.
“Seen it before?”
“This one? Never.”
“And it wasn’t here when you arrived the next morning?”
“No. And I never received any notification that this aircraft was coming in.”
“Would you normally be notified?”
“Normally, yes, since we have no tower. When pilots get within ten miles of this airport, they’re supposed to communicate with our Unicom station, frequency 122.
975, to let us know they’re approaching.
We didn’t get any such communication about this aircraft.
That pisses me off. It endangers other pilots in the area. ”
“And what about when it took off? Were you notified then?”
“No. Again, that’s not how it’s supposed to be done. I’d like to know what the hell that pilot was doing here.”
Jo could already guess the answer. Now she just needed video evidence to confirm it. She watched as the Piper pivoted at the end of the runway and rolled back toward the terminal. Suddenly it veered off the taxiway and vanished behind a hangar.
“We’ve lost it,” said Jo. “Have you got CCTV back there?”
“Um, no. No need for coverage in that area. There’s no doors, no access back there. It’s just the outside wall of the hangar.”
“Then what’s this plane doing there?”
“Maybe we can see it when it comes out the other side of that alley.”
Nolan switched to a camera at the front of the hangar. They watched five minutes, ten, waiting for the Piper to roll into view. Birds flitted past the camera, but nothing else moved.
“It’s sitting in a blind spot,” said Jo. “The pilot knew exactly where to stop.”
Nolan shook his head. “How would he know that?”
Because someone told him.
“Go back to the runway camera,” she said. “Let’s see when it takes off.”
Nolan switched cameras. “There it is.”
The aircraft had emerged from the blind spot behind the hangar and was now taxiing back onto the runway for its takeoff roll. She and Nolan watched as the Piper lifted off the tarmac and climbed out of view.
“Here and gone in fourteen minutes,” said Jo.
“It had to be some kind of delivery. You think it was dropping off drugs or something?”
“No. I think it was here to pick up a passenger,” said Jo. And she knew who that passenger was.
After watching a copy of the CCTV video in Lloyd’s kitchen, the four members of the Martini Club sat in silence.
Were they too stunned to say anything? Or were they holding back, not yet ready to completely trust Jo?
She looked at their faces, trying to gauge their reactions.
Declan and Ben were stone faced, unreadable.
Maggie was focused on Lloyd, who looked pale and shaken.
No one, it seemed, was ready to address what they’d just seen on the airport video.
Jo finally broke the silence. “Where was your wife going, Lloyd?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“You do agree, though, that the plane was almost certainly here to pick up Ingrid.”
“Yes,” he said quietly.
“It swoops in unannounced. Then fourteen minutes later it takes off, carrying your wife. From Belfast airport, it could have flown to any number of destinations. The airport manager told me that’s a Piper Seneca, which has a range of—”
“A thousand miles,” said Ben. “Assuming max fuel and economic cruise.”
Jo looked at Ben. “How is it you already know this?”
Ben shrugged. “It’s just a random bit of info I picked up.”
“Now you’re gonna tell me you’re a pilot?”
“No. But I once had to, um, make a hasty exit aboard one of those planes. It was a very nice ride.”
“A range of a thousand miles means she could’ve headed to any number of airports. Refuel or jump onto another plane, and she could continue on to any destination in the world. Where would she go, Lloyd?”
“I don’t know.”
“You really have no idea?”
“Why do you keep assuming I know the answer?”
“Because you’re her husband. And this wouldn’t be the first time you people have kept me in the dark.
You asked me to track down Ingrid’s whereabouts, but told me not to file a missing persons report.
Which meant I had to make up a story and say I was looking for a stolen vehicle.
I hate telling lies. It makes me feel dirty.
The least I expect in return is an explanation.
Tell me what’s really going on with Ingrid.
” Jo looked around at the four faces. “Anyone?”
“The honest truth,” said Maggie, “is we don’t know.”
“Lloyd?” Jo turned to him. “You’ve been married for how long?”
“Twenty-eight years.”
“Your wife of twenty-eight years jumps on a private plane and disappears. And you have no idea why.”
“There’s a great deal about my wife’s career that I’m not privy to. Things that must remain behind a wall of secrecy. I respect that wall. We all do.”
“That’s her past career. This is happening now.”
“The past has a way of rearing its head,” Maggie said quietly. Hers was the voice of experience. Last winter, Maggie’s tragic past had followed her to Purity and had almost destroyed her life in this quiet corner of Maine.
“We’re in the dark too, Jo,” said Declan.
“We’re trying to understand what led Ingrid to board that plane.
We have to assume it’s connected to Maslov’s death.
Clearly, Ingrid was the first to suspect it was an assassination, but we don’t know how she connected the dots.
Because we certainly didn’t connect them. ”
“Not until the Department of Energy showed up in their radiation suits,” said Ben. “Now the whole damn thing’s gone hot. It’s pulled in the state police, the FBI, DOE.”
“And folks from your old Agency, no doubt.”
“This is a matter of national security. I’m sure the Agency is monitoring this.”
“And Ingrid leaves town just as things turn hot. Doesn’t that strike you as suspicious?” Jo waited for an answer. No one offered one. She turned to Lloyd. “Is there a chance she’s done something that could get her into trouble?”
Lloyd straightened and fixed her with an unflinching gaze.
Jo had always thought of Lloyd Slocum as the comic relief in this group, a mild-mannered househusband who was happy just to putter around in the kitchen.
Now she saw a different Lloyd, a dangerous Lloyd, glaring at her.
“My wife served her country with courage and distinction. I don’t know why she suddenly decided to get on that plane, and I don’t know where she is.
But I know she would never betray her country. I’d stake my life on it.”
Was he simply refusing to see the obvious? Decades of marriage could do that to a man, especially a man who genuinely adored his wife. Jo wondered how objective any of these people could be when it came to one of their own. Friendship, like marriage, could blind one to the truth.
Jo might be the only one here who was clear eyed enough to see it.
Back outside, sitting in her patrol car, she considered how to proceed, and how much to reveal to investigators.
The members of the Martini Club were bound to silence about their past careers, and they were counting on Jo to honor their secret.
But was she abdicating her duty as a police officer?
If Ingrid Slocum turned up in Moscow as a defector, Jo was going to feel like an idiot. Even worse, a collaborator.
She looked at the Slocums’ house, a picture-perfect white colonial with its picket fence and manicured front yard.
It was exactly the sort of facade you’d hide behind if you were a Russian spy.
This house looked like it belonged to a loyal American who flew the flag every Fourth of July, who celebrated every Thanksgiving with roast turkey and pumpkin pie.
Spies were trained to blend in. They knew how to avoid suspicion and wear a convincing smile and recite the Pledge of Allegiance.
To anyone who knew them, they’d look like red-blooded Americans.
Patriot or traitor?
Which one are you, Ingrid?