Chapter 41
The receptionist answered the phone with the name of a congressman from Massachusetts. It was then that Burke remembered Lori mentioning an old friend of Cam's in Congress who she intended to lobby, some bill dealing with the tax deductibility of business travel. With the time difference, he got the call through as soon as he had finished breakfast. Sitting there in his motel room, aware of the belt cinched tightly around his waist, he acknowledged with a sense of guilt that he had overeaten again. Sometimes he thought breakfast would be his downfall.
The girl who answered sounded college age, as most congressional staffers seemed to be. Yes, she would be happy to deliver the message when Miss Quinn arrived for her ten-forty-five appointment.
"Please tell her that Mr. Hill called." He saw no problem with using his correct name here. "I won't be able to call her at eleven as planned. I have to go meet a man her father knew. He may be able to accomplish what she planned with the Judge. Ask her to leave a number where I can reach her early this evening. I'll call you back later to get it."
"This business about the judge," the girl said. "I hope there's nothing unethical involved. The Congressman gets pretty touchy about dealings with the judiciary."
He laughed. "No, this judge isn't on the bench any longer. He's a former judge. Would you mind reading that back to me? I'd like to be sure there isn't something she might misunderstand."
The girl read the message back word for word.
Burke had decided to go on out to Aerial Photomap rather than wait to reach McKenzie first by phone. That way he was sure he would be at the ramp in plenty of time to meet the jet. He arrived a little before nine and parked in the company lot. He didn't think McKenzie would object to his leaving the car there, since he would be returning that afternoon. Also, since he'd have his hands full with the photographs, he locked his briefcase in the trunk. Among other things, it contained his little black book with phone numbers and notes, which he didn't think he would need. At least his memory was still good enough to handle the major details of his investigation. As he walked toward the building, he noticed a police van labeled identification unit parked nearby, but thought nothing of it.
On entering the building, he encountered chaos. The receptionist's desk, which had been a model of tidiness, was now a jumble of papers. Walking into the office of McKenzie's secretary, he found furniture overturned, file drawers open, papers littering the floor. The secretary was wandering about, gazing at the clutter as if in shock. She looked up when she saw Burke.
"Hello, Mr. Hill. I'm sorry my office looks such a wreck. We were burglarized and vandalized over the weekend." She shook her head with a doleful frown.
"They really left a mess." Burke had seen ransacked offices many times. He had even participated in a few. This had the mark of a methodical professional job, perhaps intended to look like vandalism.
Kevin McKenzie came through the door to his office bearing the same dazed look. He took note of Burke with a slow head shake that said I can't believe this. "Damnedest thing I ever saw," was what came out audibly.
"Did they get any of your high tech equipment?" Burke asked.
"No, didn't bother it. Obviously weren't interested in the business. Took petty cash, some blank checks, a portable stereo, two silver sculptures, probably melt 'em down. What a waste!"
Burke frowned. "That's all that's missing?"
"A bit of photography. Mostly inconsequential stuff." He looked Burke straight in the eye. "This is the part you won't believe. They took every single print we'd made from that run over the island. The negatives, too."
Burke stood in the shade beside the hangar, gazing out at the ramp. The pilot of the jet had radioed ahead for his passenger to be waiting outside. Rather than bother with a shutdown, he would park at the edge of the ramp, kill the left engine, board Burke through the portside door, then restart and taxi back out to the runway. It was like the old days when Burke would fly into a small town on a commuter airline via what was known as a "one-engine stop." Everything very efficient, just like the voice on the phone. He dreaded the prospect of having to confess that there would be no photographs, no hard evidence for Judge Marshall. What would the man's reaction be?
Almost as precise as the ninety-degree angle the clock's hands formed at nine-thirty, the sleek, white aircraft touched down and taxied smoothly toward the ramp. Burke had started out as soon as he spotted the plane in the pattern. When it rolled to a stop beside him, he noticed a stylized "N" on the vertical stabilizer. There was no other identification besides the registration number.
Almost immediately, he could see movement beneath the fuselage as the retractable stairs on the opposite side reached for the pavement. Then a youthful figure in a green flying suit appeared around the front of the aircraft, motioning his passenger to follow. He helped Burke up the steps, then followed him inside and pressed a button to retract the stairs.
"I'm the co-pilot," he said. "Welcome aboard. We'll only be in the air a little over an hour. Have a seat there with the other passengers. Fasten your belt and we'll be under way."
The interior of the cabin was covered with a gray plush fabric. There was a bench seat along the side opposite the door. Then a pair of facing seats on either side of the narrow aisle, aft of them another seat on each side. One of the facing seats was vacant. Three men dressed in business suits occupied the others. The flight hadn't been scheduled just for him, Burke realized. It had picked up passengers at other stops as well. So he wasn't as much of a VIP as he'd imagined. That brought a smile to his face, and his fellow-passengers returned it as he sat down to fasten his seat belt. He was hardly finished by the time the jet began to roll.
Although the runway was the same, the takeoff had a considerably different effect on Burke than the one with Kevin McKenzie nearly a week earlier. The small jet rolled smoothly down the concrete strip, accelerating rapidly. Before he was hardly adjusted to the sound of the engines, he felt pushed back into the seat as the nose came up and the plane climbed out at a sharp angle. Burke's fellow passengers gazed out the windows in silence as objects on the ground quickly diminished in size and the squarish outline of Lake Pontchartrain appeared to dry up as it shrank.
A few minutes later, the co-pilot was in the aisle advising them they could move about the cabin, though he suggested they leave their seat belts fastened while seated. Just like the airlines, Burke thought. I wonder if they serve coffee and tea? He saw the man across the aisle from him reach down to pull a small bag from beneath his seat and unzip it. He had an oval face with a ruddy complexion, his brown hair tumbling forward on one side. A half-smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he put both hands inside the bag. Probably after a book, or something to eat, Burke thought. His attention was distracted as the other two men unfastened their seat belts and started to get up.
In an instant, two pairs of hands had seized each arm, immobilizing him. Fortunately, they didn't grab the injured arm near the shoulder. He gave a sudden jerk and almost freed his right arm while shouting, "What the hell are you doing?"
When he looked to his left, he saw. The brown-haired man across the aisle held a syringe with a menacing needle. It was about to be inserted into his arm. He shoved hard with his feet, attempting to free himself, but the seat belt held him tightly. He felt the needle prick his arm and knew it was too late. The faces hovering over him soon began to lose their shapes. The whole cabin gradually turned fuzzy. The lights went out.
Burke's mouth felt like he'd gone to sleep on the beach with his mouth open. But he felt no sun. What he did feel was groggy, like the beginnings of a bad hangover. He hadn't been that drunk since the night he got word that Ginger Lawrence's plane had crashed. He struggled to open his eyes. Had he overslept? Then he saw the unusually high ceiling overhead. He didn't remember that. Where was he?