CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Jock was on the phone to Washington. I was pacing. Less than fifteen minutes had elapsed since I’d heard J.D.’s voice. Jock was trying to get a trace on the call that had come in to my phone. The techs at his agency were running it down. They had resources that were beyond anything I’d ever heard of. Jock hung up.
“I don’t know if this is good news or bad news,” he said. “The call bounced off a cell tower in Fort Lauderdale. The phone number is for one of those you buy at convenience stores. It was bought this morning at a store in Sarasota. Yesterday morning now, I guess. It was rung up in the cash register at six twenty-five a.m. Paid cash.”
“Lauderdale’s only a three hour drive from here and the call came in at 3:15. If somebody left here with her before eight this morning, where the hell has she been?”
“Maybe she wasn’t able to call earlier. I don’t like the idea that she was cut off like that. Maybe she got hold of the phone somehow and called and was found out by whoever kidnapped her.”
“Goddammit Jock. We’ve got to do something.”
“We are, podna. I’ve got the address of the convenience store where the phone was bought. Let’s get a couple of cops and go over there. They probably have some kind of security camera.”
I called Chief Bill Lester. I knew he always slept with his cell phone next to his bed. My name would show up on his caller ID.
“This better be good, Royal. I was having a wonderful dream.”
“I heard from J.D.” I told him what we’d found out so far.
“Good ol’ Jock and his resources. I’ll get a couple of Sarasota cops headed to the store. I’ll meet you there.”
The convenience store hunkered on the Tamiami Trail in a forlorn block of buildings near the Ringling School of Art and Design. It was not part of a chain, but an independent store that catered to the people who made their living in the shadows of the night; streetwalkers, drug dealers, pimps, and winos. The cashier stood behind a bulletproof glass. Patrons shoved their worn bills into a tray and the attendant sent back the change. The front door could only be opened when the clerk behind the glass pushed a button releasing an electronic lock. No one could get in without the blessing of the cashier, and no one got out without paying for the beer or cigarettes or chips or whatever small item they needed to see them through another night.
Jock and I pulled into the parking lot just behind Bill Lester. A marked Sarasota Police Department patrol car with two uniformed officers was waiting for us. Everybody climbed out. The cops recognized Lester and he introduced us as his associates. We were buzzed into the store.
The attendant behind the thick glass was tall and thin and wore a scraggly beard that barely covered his chin. His hair was colored some godawful shade of green. A small spike pierced his bottom lip and another went through his right eyebrow. He was probably still in his teens.
“I’m Chief Lester,” Bill said. “We need to see your security tapes from the last twenty-four hours.”
“No can do,” said the skinny kid.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lester asked.
“The owner is the only one who can let you have those.”
“Call the owner,” said Lester.
“No can do.”
“Why not?”
“He’s gone home.”
“Call him at home.”
“No can do.”
“Look, dickhead,” said the chief, “you say that one more time and I’m going to engage in a little police brutality. Why can’t you call him at home?”
“He went to his home in Pakistan for a couple of weeks. Left me in charge.”
“Then you can give us the security tapes.”
“Not without the boss’s okay.”
“What’s your name?” asked Lester.
“Duke.”
“You like to travel, Duke?”
“Can’t say yeah or no. Ain’t never been anywhere.”
“You ever hear of Guantanamo?”
“That place in Cuba where they lock up terrorists?”
“That’s the one,” said Lester. “You’re pretty close to earning yourself a free trip down there.”
“Whoa. What’re you talking about?”
“We’re involved in a national security operation. You’re involved. If you don’t give me that tape right now, you’ll be on your way to Cuba within the hour.”
“Who says?”
“I do,” said Jock. He pulled a leather ID case from his pocket, held it against the glass partition. “Can you read that?”
The kid looked closely, squinted some. “It says you work for the president of the United States and have police power in every jurisdiction. Some other stuff, too.”
“What that means,” says Jock, “is that I can have your ass on a plane to Cuba before the sun comes up. Get the f*cking tape.”
“Yes, sir.” He disappeared through a door behind him.
One of the uniformed cops looked at Lester and said, “Where’d he get that?”
“From the president,” said Lester. “Mr. Algren is a federal agent. With more power than any of us ever thought of having.”
“Shit fire,” said the cop.
The kid returned with a compact disc, unlocked the door to his cubicle, and handed it to Lester. “This is the one that started at midnight last night. We put forty-eight hours on each disc, and the boss keeps them for a month or so.”
Lester took the disc. “We’ll bring this back in a few minutes.”
We went to the patrol car, inserted the disc into the computer bolted to the dash and fast forwarded through the time-stamped images until we came to the one showing 6:00 a.m. the day before. The camera was above the cubicle where the clerks worked so we had a pretty good shot of the entrance and the area right in front of the cubicle. We slowed it and watched a man come through the front door. He wore a baseball hat pulled low over his face. He kept his head down. He was aware of the security camera. He went to the counter and said something to the attendant, a different kid with wild hair. The images were in black-and-white, so I couldn’t tell the hair color this one was affecting.
The customer passed some cash through the slot in the window and the clerk sent a phone back. The man tested it and apparently satisfied that it was in working order, turned to leave. “Stop it,” I said. Lester complied. “Now back up slowly.” The images peeled backward. “Freeze it,” I said.
We were looking at a man in profile. The ball cap obscured most of his face from the front, but the angle of the camera as he turned away caught a full right-side likeness.
I said, “I know that man. He was the copilot on Desmond’s plane last week. Took me to Jacksonville and Charlotte.”
Jock said, “Not the same one we had this morning. That guy was black.”
“Do you know his name?” asked Lester.
“I don’t recall. The pilot introduced me, but I don’t remember his name. Fred Cassidy would know and he’s at the Hyatt Regency.”
“Who’s Cassidy?”
“The pilot,” I said.
“We need a print of that picture,” said Lester. He looked at the uniformed cops. “Can one of you send this to the station and ask them to print it? I’ll stop by on my way to the Hyatt and pick it up.”
Jock and I arrived at the Hyatt Regency at three a.m. and parked in the circular driveway that flanked the entrance. We had come directly to the hotel and were waiting for Bill Lester to arrive with the photograph.
The place was quiet, nobody around. The lobby was empty except for a night clerk behind the registration desk. “Can I help you gentlemen?” he asked.
“We need to see a guest,” I said. “Fred Cassidy. The police will be here in a few minutes to talk to him.”
“Are you police officers?”
“No, but we’re working with them on a case.”
“I think it’d be better to wait for the cops,” he said.
“Okay. The chief will be here soon. You wouldn’t happen to have any coffee around, would you?”
The clerk grinned. “I’ve always got a pot going in the back. You’re welcome to it.”
He returned with two mugs of steaming brew just as Bill Lester entered the lobby. “Did you get Cassidy?” he asked.
I gestured to the young man behind the reception desk. “He wanted to wait for the police,” I said.
“Probably a good idea,” said Lester. “You two don’t exactly look wholesome.” He pulled out his ID and showed it to the clerk.
The clerk gestured toward a phone at the end of the counter. “If you’ll pick up that house phone, I’ll connect you to his room.”
Cassidy answered after several rings, the remains of a deep sleep in his voice. “Fred,” I said, “this is Matt Royal. I’m sorry to bother you, but there have been some developments that we need your help with. Can you come to the lobby?”
“Developments? In the disappearance of Mr. Desmond?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be right down.”
We were seated in a group of chairs in the lobby overlooking the swimming pool. Bill Lester showed Fred the picture from the security camera at the convenience store. “Do you know this man?”
Fred took the picture and peered closely at it. “He looks like a guy who flew with me last week for a couple of days.”
“Who is he?” asked Lester.
“His name is Tom Telson.”
“How do I reach him?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t work for our company.”
“Then why was he flying with you?”
“He was a fill-in. My regular copilot, the one upstairs asleep, was out sick and Federal Aviation Regulations require that I have a copilot. I called an agency that supplies pilots and he showed up. Had the proper licenses and type ratings. He just worked with me for two days until my regular guy came back.”
Lester asked, “What’s the name of the agency Telson works for?”
“Pilots on Demand. They’re based in Atlanta. We use them occasionally if one of our regulars is sick or on vacation.”
“How many regular pilots does Desmond have?” I asked.
“Just the two of us. It’s usually not a problem, but we keep a working relationship with Pilots on Demand in case we need a fill-in.”
“Do you have a phone number for Pilots on Demand?”
Cassidy pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through the phone book. He gave us the number. “I doubt anybody’s there this time of the morning,” he said. “There’s an answering service that you can use in emergencies, but it doesn’t work too well. It still takes about three hours to get a pilot out of bed and to the airport. If you need one sooner, you’re screwed.”
The chief said, “I don’t think we can do much more tonight. You guys get some sleep and we’ll start again first thing this morning.”
“Fred,” I said, “what time do you have to let Macomber know whether you’re going to pick him up?”
“No later than nine o’clock.”
“Okay. I may need you to take us to Birmingham. I’ll get back to you before nine.”
“What’s in Birmingham?” the chief asked.
“That’s what I want you to find out,” I said.