Max and Tommy went outside and got into the car.
“I don’t even know where that address is,” Tommy said, consulting his notebook, “and I’ve lived here for twenty years.”
Max checked the address. “It’s a little alley off Truman Avenue.”
“Don’t tell me, show me,” Tommy replied.
Apartment six was three flights up; it was ninety outside, with the humidity crowding one hundred percent, and even worse inside. They trudged up the stairs and knocked loudly on the door. “Dixie!” Tommy yelled. “Open the goddamned door!”
A woman in a housedress stuck her head out the door of the apartment next door; a puff of chilly air came with her. “You looking for Al Dix?”
“That’s right,” Max said.
“He’s in the hospital.”
“Used to be,” Max replied, handing her a card. “If you see him, tell him to call me. It could save his life.”
“Is he contagious? Is he a carrier?”
“Of what?” Tommy asked.
“I don’t know: smallpox, TB, whaddya got?”
“None of the above,” Tommy said.
They ran back down the stairs. Max checked the mailbox for number six, while Tommy got the car and the air-conditioning going.
The mailbox locks were all broken, so it was easy to check. In number six, there was an electric bill addressed to Mayzie Birch and a single business card. On the back was written: Dixie, call me pronto, and everything will be okay. Max flipped it over. The words “South Florida Import & Export” were printed on the other side, with an address and a phone number. Max got back into the car and drew a couple deep breaths of cold air. She showed Tommy the card.
“Where’s that?” he asked.
“At the airport, I think.”
He put the car in gear and loosened his collar to let more cold air in. “I’m gonna get me some Bermuda shorts,” he said.
They drove around the airport property looking for the address but came up empty. Tommy stopped outside the only FBO, Signature Aviation. “Go in and ask them,” he said.
A young man walked up to the car and rapped on the passenger-side window. “You need some help?” he asked, looking down her cleavage.
“I’m looking for this,” Max said, showing him the card.
“Follow me, I’ll show you.” He got onto an airplane towing tractor nearby and used a card to open the gate, then both vehicles drove through. “Wait until the gate closes behind us,” the young man said.
They waited, then followed him at a snail’s pace across the ramp and down a row of hangars. He stopped in front of the last one.
They got out of the car and checked the small door in the big door. A small sign read: SOUTH FLORIDA IMPORT & EXPORT. Max tried the knob: locked. She banged on the door, but no one came. She got out her phone and called the phone number on the card. It rang once, then she heard a beep. “Please call Max,” she said, and left her cell number.
Tommy walked around the hangar and checked the side and rear, but there was no other door.
Max peered through a crack and found no airplane inside.
“They must be out importing or exporting,” Tommy said.
“Thanks,” Max said. “You’re a big help.” They got back into the car, which Tommy had had the presence of mind to keep running with the A/C on.
“Okay,” Tommy said. “What now?”
“Your turn to come up with something,” Max said.
“What, I gotta do everything?”
“So far, your most valuable contribution to this effort has been to turn on the air conditioner.”
“Well, you’re not melting, are you?”
Max put the car in gear. “Let’s go find that lineman,” she said, turning the car around and pointing it at the ramp, where they saw the young man parking a King Air with his tractor. Max drove over to him.
“Hey, any luck?” the lineman asked.
“Nothing at all — nobody there.”
“I could have told you that, if you were nice to me,” he said.
“You first,” Max said.
“Well, there’s never anybody there, except sometimes at night.”
“Which nights? What times?”
“It varies.”
“I don’t like that answer... What’s your name?”
“Jocko.”
“Come on, Jocko, give me some information here.”
“That’s it.”
“Is there ever an airplane parked in that hangar?”
“Sometimes.”
“What kind of an airplane?”
“It varies.”
Max tried hard to hang on to her temper. “You know what a Cessna 206 is?”
“Sure, it’s a Stationair.”
“Has there ever been a Stationair parked there?”
“Last week.”
“For how long?”
“I dunno, a couple of hours, I guess.”
“Did you get a tail number?”
“Funny,” he said. “I don’t remember seeing a tail number.”
Max handed him her card. “Jocko, please call me immediately, day or night, when somebody is occupying that hangar, airplane or no airplane.”
“Then you’ll be nice to me?”
“We’ll have to have a chat about that,” Max said, then put the car in gear and drove away.
“A fount of information,” Tommy said.
11
Max got off the airplane at LaGuardia, and as she entered the terminal she saw a small, gray-haired man holding a sign that read: MAX. She walked over to him. “Are you from Stone Barrington?”
“I am, miss,” he replied.
“Then I’m Max.”
“And I’m Fred.” He took her bags and led the way to the parking lot, where he loaded them into a Bentley.
Max was impressed with the car; it seemed to measure up to everything else she had learned about Stone thus far.
A half hour later, they drove into a garage, and Fred opened her door. “Here we are, miss,” Fred said. “You’re to go straight down the hallway there to Mr. Barrington’s office. I’ll put your bags in your dressing room. Would you like me to unpack for you?”
“I’ll take care of that, Fred,” she said, heading down the hall. She rapped on the door.
“Come in,” a voice said from the other side. She opened the door and stepped into a largish, comfortably furnished office, where Stone enveloped her in a big hug. “I’m glad you made it.”
“So this is your office?”
“It is.”
“And it’s in your house?”
“It is.”
“What do you do, anyway?”
“I’m an attorney and a partner in the firm of Woodman & Weld.” He took a card from his desk and tucked it into her cleavage. “So you won’t lose it.”
He glanced at his watch. “Ah, the cocktail hour is upon us. Let’s go upstairs.”
Before they could, Joan opened the door, and she and Elise walked in.
“They couldn’t contain their curiosity,” Stone said, then introduced her to both women. “We’re going up to the study,” he said, and left them. He led Max up the stairs to the first floor, then walked her through the living room and into the study, where he poured them each a drink. “How was your trip?”
“It was an airplane ride,” she said. “Need I say more?”
“You need not. And how is your Al Dix case going?”
“What case? Our chief called Tommy and me into his office yesterday and posed that question. He pointed out that, as far as we knew, Dix has not committed a crime. He is a victim, who chooses not to speak with us again. I didn’t have an answer to that, so I’m back to chasing stolen bicycles.”
“Perhaps Dix is another kind of victim — of a kidnapping.”
“It crossed my mind, but I don’t have any evidence to support that theory, either.”
“Did he pay his hospital bill? If he didn’t, that’s a crime.”