For an instant she had that dedicated look again, then she turned slowly and gave me the total charge of those deep blue eyes. “Will you take me?”
I shrugged. “Why not. Maybe you can pull some strings I can’t. Only let’s go now before I get sexy.”
Chapter 6
Hurricane Ingrid had picked up speed since the last weather check. Miami had it at full strength with winds over the 100 mph mark and alerts going out all along the coast. So far the state was only tasting the far-reaching effects of scud and heavy gusts, but in a few more days Ingrid was going to tear things apart if she stayed on course. The patrol planes had it heading directly for Cuba, and if it followed the normal track, it would continue toward Florida.
Charlie Traub felt a little uneasy about me going out, but I filed a flight plan for Miami, made a visual check of the Mustang and helped Lois into the jump seat. She wasn’t going to be comfortable and I didn’t care, but there was no word of complaint from her at all. Installing that back seat knocked out the fuselage tank, but I didn’t need the range much.
I started up, checked the mags at the end of the runway and got a tower clearance for take-off. Once in the air, I switched to the Miami frequency and stayed on a heading until the airfield was in sight.
Lois made my first contact for me, a local reporter named DeWitt who had written the original story of Tuck’s disappearance- the one the wire services picked up. We met over coffee in a restaurant and he laid out a folder of clips on the incident. There were several pictures of Tuck beside a plane at the Capital K, one at a ground-breaking ceremony somewhere in Celada and another taken outside the state capitol. Most of the copy was devoted to his activities in helping build Celada from a nothing town to a national tourist spot, but because of the unknown factors surrounding his death, the details mainly centered on the squall line he was supposedly caught up in, the extent of the search and the statement of the helicopter pilots who spotted the wreckage and the fisherman who collected a few fragments.
I jotted down the names of the pilots and the fisherman, thanked DeWitt and got on the phone to the airbase. Captain Rob Olsen was on alert but at his home, and when I located him he said he’d meet me at the club in an hour. This time I let Lois rent a U-Drive-It on her credit card and drove on out to the field.
The captain’s story was concise... it was a routine search mission in a given area that extended no more than ten miles off shore on the supposition that Tuck had simply tried to skirt the storm and got caught up in it. He had pictures of the pieces of flotsam from the Staggerwing Beech. Enlarged, they showed a seat cushion, pieces of fabrics and a dented GI gas can with a familiar white hand and a large K beneath it. Twisted around the can were unmistakable parts of aircraft framing and more fabric. Since his helicopter was not equipped with floats, Captain Olsen had not made an attempt at pickup, but radioed the location to his base. Then a boat was sent out. However, before the patrol boat arrived, the fisherman got there, attracted by the chopper, salvaged the wreckage and later handed the remains over to the government launch.
Before we left, I told Captain Olsen I was a pilot, briefed him on my background and asked him what he thought of the squall line.
“That’s the funny part,” he told me. “It wasn’t that bad. The Beech could have made it without any trouble, I’d say, but you know thunderheads. Maybe he hit it at the wrong spot.”
“But it could have been torn up in the storm?”
“It could have been.”
“Thanks, Captain.”
Later Lois said, “What now?”
“I want to be certain of something.”
“Do you mind telling me what you are really after?”
“I don’t think you’d understand.”
“Why not?”
“Because you aren’t curious enough, honey. You sit and listen while I talk — like you knew all along what’s going on and are just letting things stall out. You’re supposed to be a reporter with a newsy nose. You gather facts for a political hack who is always after our government policy, but you aren’t prying a bit.”
She made a wry face. “All right, I know what you’re after.”
“Tell me.”
“You want to know how Tucker Stacy died.”
I grinned at her. “I know that, sugar. I want to know why.”
“Go right ahead then. You’re doing fine. You’ll make a good story yourself if nothing comes of this one. It you have something more specific for me to do...”
“I have.”
“What?”
“Miami is loaded with anti-Castro people. You know any of them?”
“There are some who have appealed to our government. There’s their government-in-exile and...”
“Okay, try them. Get to the big ones and see what you can come up with on this bananas thing.”
Her eyes darted to my face.
“You got it from someplace. Where?”
She licked her lips, then: “A rumor. The person who mentioned it was killed before he could testify before a Congressional committee.”
“That Gonzales guy last week?” I asked.
“Uh-huh. He had come over in a small boat that had floundered halfway across and drifted for a week. He was near dead from exhaustion and exposure. I was there when they took him off the rescue boat. I heard him mention the word.”
“So he was hungry.”
“Could be.”
“Suppose you find out. Think you know the right people?” Lois nodded. “I can try. Shall we meet later?”
“There’s a Paramount Motel across from where we rented the car. I’ll stay there tonight.”
She started to smile.
“Two rooms,” I said.
The smile turned into a pout.
“Adjoining,” I added.
“I’d like that,” she said.
Rather than have DeWitt come out again, I went to the office and had him show me the editions of the paper that carried the account of Gonzales’ death. When he didn’t appear for the hearing, he was found choked to death in his roominghouse near Washington — even though a police officer guarded the building. Investigation showed that the killer had gained entry by climbing a tree in the backyard, forcing a second-floor window and making his exit the same way. It was assumed the killer was a Castro fanatic.
DeWitt said, “That wasn’t the first one of those.”
“Oh?”
“This town is loaded with people from both sides. Hell, it’s open warfare around here no matter whom you favor. Luckily for us, they keep it pretty much inside their own quarter, but the situation is going to blow someday. By the way, you know who this guy Gonzales was?”
“Nope.”
He thumbed through some later editions and pulled one out on its rack. The story was on page four, a resume of the rescue and subsequent murder of Gonzales. It said he was formerly employed by one of the ousted American industries in Havana.
After I finished, I said, “What about it?”
“Nothing much,” he shrugged. “Up until now they’d been playing the guy like he was a peasant climbing off the farm. Turns out he was a chemical engineer. What I’d like to know is what he wanted to spill to the Congressional committee.”
“I don’t think it would matter. They never seem to listen to anybody anyway.”
“That’s how it goes. Need anything else?”
“Where can I find that fisherman?”
“The one who picked up the plane wreckage?”
“Uh-huh.”
He told me to wait, dug into some other files until he found what he wanted and handed me a slip of paper with a name and address on it.