He started his patrol car, switched on the flashers and the siren, and stomped on the accelerator. He crossed the runway and drove down the row of aircraft parked there, stopping fifty feet from what seemed to have been a Citation.
He got out his cell phone and dialed 911. When the operator answered he said, “This is airport security at Santa Monica Airport. An airplane has exploded, and I need the police right away. Hang on.” He had spotted something lying a dozen feet from the airplane and now illuminated it with his spotlight.
It appeared to be most of a human body. “You’d better send an ambulance, too,” he said. “No, on second thought, make it a coroner’s hearse.”
Then he hung up and pressed the speed-dial button that called his boss’s home number. It rang four times before it was answered.
“What the fuck?” a sleepy voice said.
“Floyd,” the security guard said, “it’s Roland. You’d better get your ass over to the airport right now. We’ve got an exploded airplane and a dead man on our hands.”
37
At around seven-thirty, Stone, Ed Eagle, and Susannah Wilde were having breakfast out by the pool. Ann was sleeping in after an exciting night.
The phone buzzed next to Stone, and he picked it up. “Yes?”
“Is this Mr. Ed Eagle?”
“No, please hold.” He handed the phone to Eagle. “It’s for you.”
Eagle pressed the instrument to his ear. “This is Ed Eagle, how can I help you?” He listened thoughtfully, a frown on his face. “You’re sure it’s mine?” he asked. “Yes, that’s my tail number. All right, I’ll be there in half an hour.” He hung up and handed Stone the phone. “That was somebody with security at Santa Monica Airport,” he said. “Sounds like somebody has vandalized my airplane. I’d better get a cab out there.”
Stone took his last bite of omelet and put down his fork. “I’ll drive you,” he said. “Are your bags packed?”
“Yes, they’re in the front hall.”
Stone buzzed Manolo and asked him to put Mr. and Mrs. Eagle’s luggage into the Arrington Cayenne parked in the driveway.
They were buzzed through the gate at Atlantic Aviation, then met by a security car that, after ascertaining that Eagle was in the car, waved them to follow him.
Stone followed the patrol car around a large hangar and down a taxiway where a long line of airplanes was parked. A hundred yards down the taxiway were a number of vehicles — security, police, and a medical examiner’s wagon. “That’s a lot of attention for a vandalism call,” Stone said. He pulled to a halt a few yards from the police car, and a sergeant walked over to meet them. “Mr. Ed Eagle?”
“My name is Eagle,” he said, offering his hand.
“I’m afraid there’s been a terrible... let’s call it an incident — we don’t really know what it is yet,” the officer said.
Stone produced his NYPD badge that had been a gift of the police commissioner and that identified him as a detective first grade. “You mind if I have a look around?” he asked.
“Go ahead but be careful where you tread — as you can see, we’ve marked a lot of airplane pieces and body parts.”
“Whose body parts?” Eagle asked.
“We don’t know yet. We’re about ready to search the body.” He beckoned them over to where a large lump was covered by a rubber sheet. “Those of you with weak stomachs better stay back.” He pulled away the sheet, revealing the torso of a good-sized man; it had only one arm and was missing a head. “Anybody any of you know?” the sergeant asked.
Everyone shook heads silently.
“Anything in his pockets?” Stone asked.
“Okay, Ralph,” the sergeant said, “roll him over gently and check his pockets.” Ralph did as he was told, came up with a wallet, and handed it to the sergeant. “California driver’s license in the name of Harry S. Gregg. That ring a bell with anybody?”
The Eagles shook their heads, but Stone was looking thoughtful. “I’ve heard that name,” Stone said. “Let me make a call.” He got out his cell phone and pressed a button.
“Hello, Billy Burnett.”
“Billy, it’s Stone Barrington.”
“Good morning, Stone, what can I do for you?”
“Isn’t there a guy working at the Centurion armory named Gregg? He helped the president and the first lady when they were firing rifles the other day.”
“Yes, Harry Gregg.”
“Where are you, Billy?”
“I’m on the way to work.”
“I think you’d better come to Santa Monica Airport and see what’s going on here. I’m with the police at Atlantic Aviation, around the corner of a hangar from the main building, where a lot of airplanes are parked. We’ve got a corpse. It doesn’t have a head, but a driver’s license has the name Harry S. Gregg on it.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Billy said.
Stone hung up. “Someone is coming who may be able to identify the body,” he said to the sergeant.
“I’ll be glad to see him,” the sergeant replied.
“Tell me, from what you see here, what do you think happened?”
The sergeant pointed at the wrecked airplane, which Eagle was inspecting.
Stone and the sergeant walked over. “Ed, is that your airplane?” he asked.
“What’s left of it,” Eagle said. The nose of the airplane had disappeared, and the fuselage rested on the two main gears and the tail cone. Bits of the aircraft were scattered all over the taxiway and other airplanes, some of which were blown askew.
“Looks like the nose gear over there,” the sergeant said, pointing. Stone and Eagle walked over and looked at it. Stone squatted and pointed at some duct tape. “Something was taped to the nose gear,” he said, “some sort of explosive device, I should think. Sergeant, have you got anybody here from your crime lab or bomb squad?”
“On the way,” the sergeant replied. They heard a vehicle approach and turned to see Billy Burnett getting out of a Mercedes station wagon.
“Good morning, Billy.” Stone introduced him to the sergeant. “You know Ed Eagle, I believe.”
“Sure,” Billy said. He pointed at the rubber sheet. “Can I have a look?” The sheet was pulled back, and Billy squatted beside the body. He pointed at the hand of the remaining arm. “That’s an army Special Forces ring,” he said.
The sergeant showed him the driver’s license.
“This is Harry Gregg,” Billy said.
“Who was this Gregg?” the sergeant asked.
“I hired him and trained him as an armorer at the Centurion Studios armory,” Billy said. “He was ex — Special Forces, a weapons and explosives expert.” He looked over at Eagle’s ex-airplane.
“The nose gear had some duct tape on it,” Stone said, pointing at the mangled aircraft part.
“Did the body have a cell phone on it?” he asked.
“Two of them,” the sergeant said, holding up an iPhone and another device.
“That one’s a throwaway,” Billy said, pointing at the non-Apple phone. “I think the idea was he made a bomb and attached a cell phone to it, then taped the device to the nosewheel, probably up in the wheel well. He could have set off the bomb by calling the phone taped to the device, probably after the airplane had taken off and was out over the water. My guess is somebody else called the number, probably by accident, when he had an arm and maybe his head up in the wheel well. Harry got a rude shock.”
“That makes a whole lot of sense to me,” the sergeant said, looking at his watch. “There’ll be a couple of detectives here from our bomb squad, when they get around to it. I’d appreciate it if you’d talk to them when they get here, Mr. Burnett.”
“Sure, glad to.”