Dead Love

6



Joey got to the Subway Office, Upper West Side, by 6:15 a.m. He had about fifteen minutes to spare. He clocked in and said good morning to the station manager.

“Hi, Marty,” he said to his boss, who was sitting at his desk, head down, shoulders hunched, staring at his computer screen.

Joey wasn’t sure how old Marty was, probably mid-fifties, but he knew the hours were long and Marty could get pretty stressed out. He complained a lot about the constant bureaucratic bullshit emails and endless reports he had to complete. Five maintenance staff worked this station and Marty had to write up any and all out of the ordinary events that occurred, plus maintain schedules for two other stations as well. When summer vacations started, his work load would get worse, but Joey and the other guys liked Marty and put up with his attitude. He and Marty were good friends and Joey knew Marty relied on him when any problem cropped up.

“How was your weekend?” Joey asked Marty.

Marty said, “The usual, how was yours?” Marty wasn’t much for small talk, but was an okay boss. He left Joey alone, knowing Joey was a responsible guy. He had to ride several of the others, so Joey did pretty well, just showing up and being there on time. Plus Joey didn’t miss much, keeping his eye on the crowds, the rails, and keeping the place swept and orderly.

“It was a good weekend,” Joey answered. “Did you see the game last night? Unbelievable. I didn’t think they would win, and then Jeter hit it out of the park. The Yankees may have a chance to win the pennant this year.”

Marty said, “Yeah, loved the game, but fell asleep after the seventh inning. Crap! I hate when I do that. Then I miss the best part. At least they won. I hate waking up to a blowout.”

Joey put his lunch in his locker, poured some coffee into a Styrofoam cup, and then sat down in one of the chairs at the lunch table. He didn’t have much time, but needed a bit more coffee to get him started.

“Sure is a hot June,” Joey observed. “If the whole summer is like this, the city is going to be miserable, and the passengers are going to be a pain in the ass. It’s going to mean more trouble with gang bangers and robberies and God knows what.”

Marty said, “We just have to rely on the cops, and if you see anything out of the ordinary, just radio for help, and you’ll get back up fast. The cops are always on patrol at most of the stations.”

Joey said, “Yeah, I know, but five minutes can be a long time when I am in a face-off with a gang of punks and I don’t have jack for protection.”

Marty understood fully. Joey had been in several tussles with purse snatchers, drug users, and other a*sholes causing trouble. The police were diligent, but shit happens fast, and Joey knew it. He was a big guy though and had confidence. Other maintenance staff began to arrive as Joey finished his coffee. He headed out of the gray door that would take him to the steps leading to the platform. “Hey, fellas,” and a few “Monday morning” comments were made in passing.

It was early, but that gave him some time to sweep, empty the trash bins, and do his routine safety check before crowds got really heavy. It was boring at times, but he liked staying busy and knew it was an important job. Anything thrown on the rails could be trouble, and he didn’t want a problem on his watch.

Joey headed up the stairs to the platform from the lower level. At least it was a cool place to work, out of the summer heat.

People were milling around, waiting for the next car.

“Another day at the salt mines,” he thought.


7



The phone call came in to the main switchboard at the Manhattan Field Office of the FBI at exactly 8:00 a.m. that Monday morning. The call had been recorded, and the alert operator immediately informed her ranking supervisor, who contacted Special Agent Georgiana Reed. The NYC subway system was the target of a possible terrorist threat. The source was unknown, possibly a hoax, but all threatening calls were taken seriously.

Agent Reed reacted immediately and picked up the phone to call her partner, Mark Strickland. “Come to my office right away, Mark.”

Georgiana’s tone made it clear that this was no ordinary bullshit session. Mark was a fairly new agent at the Manhattan Field Office, early into his second year with the FBI, but he had ten years of experience on the NYPD. Georgiana recognized him as a proven asset and they worked well together. She felt lucky to have him as a partner.

When she and Mark listened to the playback, the menacing call sounded like the real deal, and George, as her staff called her, knew instinctively not to let this one pass.

The muffled male voice made it brief, uttering one sentence: “Subway hit today.” The trace was to a public telephone in downtown Manhattan.

“Damn,” she said, under her breath, looking at Mark.

They listened to the recording several times. George knew that the public telephone would offer no useful information, but she had to check it out anyway.

Georgiana was a tall, attractive redhead with green eyes. She was well known for her serious, take no shit attitude. An expert marksman, her Glock never left her hip. Both she and Mark were single, somewhat friendly, but stayed focused on their jobs. She met Mark when he was assigned to be her partner and liked him immediately. In fact, she liked him too much. She kept her feelings buried and maintained a strictly professional attitude toward him.

Georgiana was divorced, no kids, and had leftover scars from her brief marriage. She and Denny had been high school sweethearts and were still going together in college. He was the love of her life, but when George found out he had gone out with another girl, she was crushed and broke up with him. Several years after graduation, they ran into each other and reconnected. She fell for him again. She had never really gotten over him. They soon became engaged, and everything felt so right. He had a business degree, plus an MBA, and was working in marketing for a large corporation. George had a degree in criminal justice and was in training at the FBI when they got married. Everything felt so perfect, and she loved him with all of her heart and soul, but it hadn’t taken long for her to realize he was the same old Denny. She had been in denial at first. He had to travel frequently on company business, and all the signs were there. After an ugly confrontation, he admitted he had been with someone else. His assertion that it meant nothing to him didn’t work for her. The marriage was over. She hoped the right man would come along some day. She put the job first and kept relationships on an impersonal level. Being a “loner” worked best for her, but in her heart, she needed love. For now, work filled the gaps.

Mark was single and didn’t have much free time to date. His career was foremost right now, but he wanted marriage and a family someday. Being an agent was a high-risk profession requiring a lot of overtime hours. It would take the right woman to put up with the demands of his job. He was tall with dark brown hair and a dark shadow of beard. He trained hard to stay in shape, a habit he learned while working on the force.

His sexy appearance had not escaped George’s notice. She sensed that he liked her but had to maintain a barrier. She often wondered how it would feel to have him hold her, but she forced herself “not to go there.” It was at night, though, when she was struggling to fall asleep and feeling alone, that she imagined someone in bed next to her, holding her. In those moments, the only man she ever envisioned next to her was Mark.


8



Maggie entered Century Air crew scheduling, said hi to the guys as she signed in for Flight 227, and then went into the adjoining flight attendants’ lounge. The chairs were full with FA’s between flights or waiting out delays. She was an hour ahead of departure and saw the other four flight attendants from 227 had already checked in.

“Hey, Jackie, Mary Ann, how did your weekends go?” Maggie asked of both.

“Very hot but I enjoyed the days off,” said Jackie.

“Me, too,” said Mary Ann.

Maggie waved hello to the other crew members, Justin and Terry, who were also working 227.

After a quick chat, Maggie went into the supervisor’s office to talk with Laura Cameron. She was not just her manager but a friend as well. She and Maggie had known each other for the ten years Maggie had flown for Century. Both had been around long enough to see many flight attendants come and go. Some flew only a few years and then left to get married or got tired of the pace.

The new regulations following 9/11, plus the increasing number of unruly passengers were frustrating, but Maggie was upbeat and found laughter was the best way to deal with the stresses of the job. And she loved flying. She enjoyed the friendships of the other crew members, and the pay and perks were unbeatable.

“Laura, how’s everything is going?” asked Maggie. Laura was leaning down, putting her purse away in a desk drawer.

“Great, Maggie, how about Mike and the boys?” asked Laura, looking up as Maggie walked in.

Laura was around fifty, with blonde shoulder-length hair, worn in a stylish bob. She was strikingly pretty with a great figure. Having been a flight attendant when they were called stewardesses, she knew all facets of the job. She was old school and had the highest standards for all who worked for her and Century Air. She drove a black classic 300 ZX, taught classes to flight attendant trainees every other month, and always stopped to look up when she heard a plane overhead to see if it was a Century airliner. Flying was her life.

“They are fine. Mike and I had fun taking them to the park. We rode our bikes, but we mostly hung out. What did you do over the weekend?”

Laura replied, “I had a date.” She had a pleased smile on her face.

“Oh, are you still seeing Bud?”

“Yes, he is truly amazing. We spent the whole weekend at his crash pad, alone. I’m falling for this guy, and it scares me.” She laughed. Maggie knew Bud Wittwer, a Century Air captain, very good looking and recently divorced.

“He’s a really great guy, Laura. I hope it works out.”

Laura said, “We sure click in the bedroom, and I think he likes me. We can’t keep our hands off each other. He’s all I think about. He calls every day, and we have another date this weekend. I can hardly stand it. Horny doesn’t cover it.” They laughed. “He is my dream lover.”

“Laura, it sounds wonderful. I’ll keep my fingers crossed. Just let things happen, right?” smiled Maggie.

Laura said, “Yes, I’m letting things happen.” She blushed. “I don’t know why I keep buying sexy lingerie. It doesn’t stay on very long.”

Laughing, Maggie said, “I better get to the gate and start setting up. See you later, if you are still here when I get back. Flights are on schedule so far?” Maggie asked.

“Yes, the weather is good with no delays. Have a good one,” said Laura.

“You, too. And let me know how the weekend goes with Bud,” said Maggie.

“Oh, I will,” said Laura, looking happy.

“Ciao!”

Maggie left the lounge, noticing that the other crew members were gone, so she hurried to the gate.

Before boarding, she checked with the gate agent, Steve, asking how many were on the flight.

He said, “So far, one hundred thirty-seven. Not too bad.”

Maggie smiled and said, “Sounds like we’ll be busy,” and headed for the boarding ramp.

Steve couldn’t talk further, as passengers were lining up, checking on their boarding passes. The MD 88 was her favorite equipment, and it was easy to work. With some unfilled seats, she and Terry would have extra time to assist the other crew members with the meal service, if necessary.

Since Maggie was senior, she had the responsibilities of doing all flight reports and assigning duties to the other flight attendants. They had worked this flight as a team for over eight months, so they knew the routine. They switched off when necessary and had formed close friendships, enjoying the pleasant camaraderie.

After stowing her gear in the first class coat closet, Maggie began the safety check of fire extinguishers, safety doors, slides, oxygen tanks, and first aid kit. She counted and signed off on the liquor and meal counts with the food service agent, and greeted the other FAs. The cockpit was empty. The captain and first officer were still doing their standard exterior visual safety check. Terry started the coffee and assisted the other crew members in the rear cabin.

Maggie sliced the lemons and limes for cocktails and made sure the warming ovens were turned on. She noted several extra meals and was glad there would be hot meals for the crew. A champagne brunch would be served to first class on white china with white cloth tray covers and napkins. She loved the elegant service, reminiscent of the earlier days of flying that she had heard about. Century was trying to bring deluxe service back on some of the longer flights. It was good PR, and the deluxe flights were popular and booked well in advance.

The captain and copilot came on board and began their routine preflight checklists. Maggie poured them each a cup of coffee in china mugs, one regular, one with cream.

“Morning, John, Allen.”

“Hey, Maggie, thanks,” said Captain John Wesley, as she handed them their coffee.

“Weather looks good for the trip. We’ll try to keep it smooth for you,” said Allen Delaney, the first officer, sitting to the right of the captain.

Maggie smiled. “Great, I will remind you that you said that!” She really liked them both. They were experienced, both former military pilots, and nice guys.

Boarding would begin in a few minutes, and she had nearly finished her preflight duties. Terry was working with her in first class, and Mary, Jackie, and Justin were working in business class. Terry walked up the aisle to join Maggie at the entrance of the plane. It was nearly time for boarding.

She said to Maggie, “How are you?” She thought Maggie wasn’t her usual self but wasn’t sure.

“Okay, I think. I hope I am not getting a bug,” answered Maggie.

Terry and Maggie had been friends and coworkers for many years. Terry Jamison was a senior flight attendant, as well, with just a few years less experience than Maggie. Terry was pretty, single, and knew the ropes. They felt a sisterly kinship, and Maggie enjoyed hearing about Terry’s single lifestyle. Terry knew Maggie’s family and loved her boys. They always bid the same flight and were glad to get to work together.

Terry gave Maggie a hug and said, “Let me know if you start to feel worse.”

She was a little concerned. Terry walked back to her position at mid-cabin.

Suddenly, Maggie felt nauseated, just for a moment, but then it passed. She hoped it was just the lack of breakfast, but she also felt dizzy. She tried to shake it off. She went to the galley and opened a small carton of orange juice, hoping that would help.

The gate agent, Steve, walked down the ramp to the open door where Maggie was waiting and said, “You ready, Maggie?” He noticed Maggie looked a little shaky and pale as she stood leaning against the bulkhead, drinking from the carton.

She said, “Sure, send them on.”

He stepped inside the doorway of the plane and asked with concern, “Are you sure?”

She brushed the feelings off best she could. “Yes, I’ll be fine, thanks. It must be the heat or something.” She touched her brow.

He said, “Okay, but if you want, I can call for a sub. It isn’t too late. You have a long day ahead, and it is a nearly full list.”

“Thanks, but I’ll get through. Maybe something I ate.” She smiled but inwardly had some doubts. She hoped it was nothing.

“All right, Maggie. We’re going to start boarding.”

Maggie said, “We’re ready,” throwing the carton into the trash, forcing herself into her best “meet and greet” position.

On more than one occasion, she had worked when sick. She could do it again, if necessary. Terry was great to work with and would step in if she got sick. Terry was standing near the business class entrance, ready to direct passengers to their seats and help stow carry-on luggage in the overhead compartments.

“Good morning,” said Maggie as the first two passengers came on board.

They smiled back and said, “Good morning.” It was business as usual, except for the queasiness that was becoming harder for Maggie to ignore.


9



Joey came out of the storage closet with trash bags, dustpan, and broom. He grabbed a pair of rubber gloves, out of habit, and put them on. He started along the back wall, eyeing the comings and goings of the crowd, on their way to work. He was often envious, thinking they had better jobs and more exciting lives, but he tried to think positively. He recognized some of the regulars, especially the pretty girls. He saw the blonde flight attendant get on the train, and whistled under his breath. She was “hot.” He loved summer, “short skirt season,” when he could check out her sexy legs. He better put those horny thoughts away until tonight; he smiled to himself.

As Joey surveyed the area, he noticed some debris on the track and took the small concrete staircase down to pick it up. It was just some paper cups and napkins. He kept looking while down there. It was early, and there wasn’t much to pick up after a quiet Sunday night.

He climbed out of the track area and surveyed the already bustling station. He walked toward the rear of platform, noticing out of the corner of his eye, an object behind one of the support pillars, barely visible. It appeared to be a canister, like the kind that cleaning sprays come in, only taller and narrower. It was dark gray with no markings and no lid. He leaned over to pick it up and noticed it had some moisture on it. It was probably nothing. He threw it into the garbage bag and headed for the storage closet to return his supplies and put the trash bag in the large trash can, along with his rubber gloves. Glad that’s done. He would have to clean again before he left his post, but no big deal. Joey’s main job was to monitor the passengers as subway trains came and went. He had a radio in case of emergencies. The police were always nearby, and he could check in with Marty, if necessary.

Joey’s thoughts wandered back to the dark gray canister. Something about it bothered him. It was the norm to find all kinds of junk, trash, personal objects, like combs, cigarette lighters, watches, and all kinds of weird stuff, but ever since the 9/11 terrorist attack, he had become wary of anything out of the ordinary. Just for the hell of it, he stepped into a more quiet area of the station and radioed Marty.

Marty instantly answered, “What’s up, Joey?”

“Probably nothing, but I found an odd looking canister, no lid, no label, with some moisture on the outside of it, and I disposed of it in the trash. Thought I better report it.”

“Did it smell like anything, window cleaner or something?” asked Marty.

Joey said, “No, I didn’t smell it. It just seemed odd to me— that’s all. Plus the fact that it was sitting in a dark corner, behind a support beam.”

Marty said, “I’ll key it in as a “suspicious object report.” Maybe keep track of the bag it’s in so it doesn’t get away from us, just in case, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, CYA time,” said Joey.

Joey knew Marty took him seriously, and neither one let anything slip by them, just in case. They had to be extra cautious with any small thing, which normally turned out to be nothing. But who could be sure? Anyway, Joey signed off with Marty. He kept thinking of the canister, though, and hoped it was nothing. He was glad he remembered to wear the rubber gloves.

It was about 8:30 a.m., that hot June Monday morning, when Marty looked up and saw two uniformed NYPD cops walk into the office.


10



Georgiana grabbed the phone. Her voice never wavered as she gave instructions to the field office on-call team to check out the public phone from which the “terrorist’s” call had been placed and to notify the New York City Metropolitan Transit Authority and the chief of police. George, having gotten the ball rolling, called Manhattan FBI Field Office Director, Fran Jacobs, filling her in on the few details she knew. George had met Director Jacobs at the FBI Academy. Fran had been one of her instructors and they had become friends. Fran had confidence in George’s capabilities to take the lead on this one.

Her next call was to the Department of Homeland Security, asking to speak to the regional director, Tom Bennett. Mark was listening, taking notes, as Georgiana introduced herself, and began informing Director Bennett of the possible threat to the NYC subway system. He asked George to mobilize the FBI Counterterrorism Task Force as a precaution, and he would alert the Mayor, as well as the New York State National Guard. She told Bennett that the NYPD was currently on scene, and they would be first responders. Her agents, part of the Task Force, would get there soon and do a thorough investigation. There would be no “turf war” only teamwork, especially in the aftermath of 9/11.

Director Bennett said, “Please keep me informed of any potential threat.”

As she hung up, she said to Mark, “Grab some coffee. It may take a while for things to start happening, if this isn’t a hoax. Let’s hope it is.” George made the necessary phone calls as Bennett had directed, and now it was a tension-filled “waiting game.”

Mark, dressed in khakis and a light blue dress shirt with sleeves rolled up, solid navy tie with miniature white polka dots, Glock in his shoulder holster, headed to the half-filled coffee pot. The coffee smelled fresh enough, so he grabbed a clean mug and poured himself a cup. Then he sat down in the worn but comfortable chair across from George. He threw his navy sport coat over the arm of the other chair. He was outwardly relaxed and composed, but she knew his mind was going through multiple scenarios, as was hers. Their eyes met, but neither spoke.

Mark noted the time. It was 8:20 a.m. He watched George walk to the window and knew what she was thinking. His vivid memories of 9/11 wouldn’t go away either. He and his NYPD partner had been among the first responders. They had entered the North Tower and Jimmy had followed Mark up the stairs. The heat and flames were un-f*cking-believable. Mark lost count of how many he carried out. Overtaken by smoke and fumes, he had to be treated for smoke inhalation and exhaustion. He never saw Jimmy again. He vowed that day to be at the front end of the problem, never again the back end, making certain there would never be another 9/11.

Mark loved watching Georgiana, her sensual curves visible through the pale silk blouse, softly patterned, golden tones over beige, which matched the dark brown fitted slacks, with the faintest trace of her bikini panty lines showing. The colors were the perfect complement to her long red hair. The flowing fabric hugged her sexy figure, adding to the attraction. Her beige low heels were classic and practical. He knew she had a small pistol strapped to her ankle, and the Glock was in a paddle holster on her hip. The PPK in her purse was a backup. Sweet, he thought. He would tell her soon how he felt, but not now.

Fifteen minutes later, they got the report. No evidence was found on the phone booth, but two police officers were at the scene where the “suspicious object” had been discovered. It was placed in a sealed evidence bag. The Metropolitan Transit Authority had shut down the subway system temporarily, as a precaution. The police officers were questioning the station manager and the subway inspector. The maintenance worker had noticed the odd canister and instinctively knew to set it aside, “in case.” He appeared nervous but not suspiciously so. Joey Caruso had been ruled out as a suspect after a quick background check. They worked fast.

George made the necessary calls, grabbed her purse and brown suit jacket from the back of the door, and said, “Let’s go. We can take your car.”

Mark drove a black Mustang GT, perfect fit for him. He grabbed his jacket, following her out the door, both hoping for a boring and uninteresting day.