Lost (13 page)

“Anything I should know?” I ask, indicating the phone.

“Seth Manning’s car has just been located.”

“His car?” I say, excited. “What about Kelly?”

“Let’s take a break, I’ll bring you up to speed.”

He grabs his notebooks and I follow him back into the kitchen. Shane takes a stool at the far end of the counter, helps himself to coffee. I cling to the mug of tea like it’s a grenade that might go off if released.

“Couple of interesting things,” he begins. “Background on Edwin Manning. The name was vaguely familiar and now I know why. He started a very successful, very private hedge fund, Manning Capital. Big money. Listed assets of five
billion dollars, over which he has more or less total control. Which makes him a juicy target.”

“I’m not even sure what a hedge fund really does.”

“It makes money for people with money. Or that’s the idea.”

“What about the car? You said they found his car?”

Shane nods. “Correct. Seth’s vehicle has been located in the long-term parking lot at Island Executive Airport in Farmingdale. Just the vehicle, locked. The police have impounded it. We’ve agreed it will be given a full forensic search.”

“We?”

Flashing a quick, almost furtive smile, he strokes his trim little beard, as if embarrassed to have been caught doing something naughty. “Um, Detective Berg and I. That’s the ‘we.’ The way it played out I, ah, happened to suggest a full search and he agreed it made sense. The idea being that the case may fall under the 2252 statute.”

Takes a moment for my brain to slip into gear and put together
airport
and
car in the long-term parking lot.

“Are you saying they flew somewhere? Kelly and this man? Where did they go? Does this mean they really did run away, they weren’t kidnapped?”

Shane consults his notes. “This doesn’t contradict our abduction theory. A car registered to Seth Manning entered the lot at 5:13 a.m., almost six hours before your last contact with Kelly. The I.E. is not a major commercial facility—it’s a small, private airport—but it has charter flights to all the metropolitan airports. LaGuardia, Kennedy, Newark and, by helicopter, to Manhattan. There are regular flights to Atlantic City. So theoretically your daughter could have been almost anywhere when she called you.”

Despite all the caffeine, my head is still thick with Ambien-induced sleep, so I’m having trouble processing.
Can it only be yesterday that Kelly vanished? Doesn’t seem possible. Seems like weeks.

“Theoretically?” I ask, seizing on the word. “What does that mean?”

“Means her name was not listed on the manifest of any charter flight leaving yesterday morning,” he explains. “Nor was it listed on any private flight plan filed with the tower.”

“The FBI told you that? Your friend Monica?”

“Not Monica personally. People who work the Long Island office.”

“So Kelly didn’t fly? She and this man were kidnapped in the airport parking lot? Is that what you’re saying?”

“No,” he says. “My apologies. I’m not making myself clear. I’m not saying she and Seth Manning didn’t fly out of Island Executive, just that they didn’t leave on a chartered flight. It’s a very busy airfield, lots of private and corporate aircraft use it. Hundreds. Civilian pilots are encouraged to file a flight plan, but not all do so.”

“Somebody must know what happened to them.”

“Somebody does,” he agrees. “We just have to find out who.”

25. Surprise, Surprise

The Lincoln Town Car is starting to feel like a sturdy old friend. Keeping just below the speed limit, we cruise into Island Executive Airport in less than forty minutes door to door. More like door to long-term parking lot. Out over the runways, small planes teeter like fragile kites, looking much too slow to stay aloft. The same trick of the eye that makes you think a 757 is barely moving, and these little jobs are way smaller. And yes, I’m one of those who’ve never really understood
how a squat little box with stubby wings can make itself fly. My ninth-grade science teacher, Mr. Polanski, tried his best, but it still doesn’t make sense.

Only one of the reasons that the idea of Kelly and small planes freaks me out. Parachutes? Skydiving? Forget about it.

Safely parked on the outer rim of the lot—Shane likes an open space on either side—we head for a blocky-looking building near the lone tower that overlooks the runways. The building is divided into bays with separate entrances. There are signs for Flight Instruction, Maintenance, and Flight Operations. Shane heads for door number three.

It’s all I can do to keep up without breaking into a run. He notices, apologizes and shortens his stride.

“Long legs,” I say.

“And big feet,” he points out.

A blast of cold air greets us inside Flight Operations. Temperature control is low enough to keep polar bears frisky, and I find myself hugging my bare arms.

“Sorry, miss,” says the man behind the counter. Older guy in his sixties with the hanging jowls and the soulful eyes of a faithful bulldog. “Thermostat is out of whack. Grab a jacket.”

He points to a row of hooks inside the door and a selection of bright orange jackets, all with Ground Crew stenciled on the back. The jacket is big enough for three of me, but it helps.

“Now,” says the man behind the counter, rubbing his hands together. “Bob Cody, what can I do ya?”

Bob has a thinning white flat-top, radar-scoop ears, and the kind of deeply creased, leathery skin that’s seen way too much sunlight over the years. But his smile is friendly enough and he seems genuinely interested in helping.

“This is Jane Garner,” Shane begins, laying his business card down on the counter. “Her daughter is missing.”

“Oh my God,” Bob says, glancing at the card. “That’s terrible.”

“You were on duty when the police tow truck snagged the Boxster this morning?”

Bob nods eagerly. “Seth’s Porsche. Yeah, I saw that. The old man’ll be pissed. Excuse me, miss. I mean missus.”

Shane looks pleased. He sort of relaxes his big frame on the counter, leaning on his elbows to make himself appear smaller, less imposing. It’s a conversation between equals now, two men of the world helping out a lady.

“This is going to be our lucky day, Mrs. Garner,” Shane says to me. “Bob knows the Mannings. I’ll bet he’s seen Kelly with Seth, right, Bob? Pretty girl, slender and athletic. Dark hair. Taking lessons?”

On cue I produce Kelly’s photo, the one that shows her in the cockpit of the little airplane. Bob studies the photograph, shakes his head. “I’m sorry, no. But Seth has quite a number of students, I do know that, because he’s always careful with the flight plans. Not all the pilots are, but he is. That’s mostly when I see him nowadays, when he hands in the paperwork.”

While Bob studies the photo, Shane studies Bob. Nods to himself, as if satisfied that the jug-eared gent is being truthful. “Recognize the aircraft?”

Bob nods eagerly, which makes his jowls jiggle slightly. “Yep. Cessna Skylane. That’s the plane Seth uses for flight instruction. Took delivery just last year. Beautiful piece of machinery, just beautiful.” He pauses, looks from me to Shane. “Is Seth in some sort of trouble?”

“No trouble,” Shane says firmly. “Kelly is the one in trouble, because she neglected to tell her mom where she and Seth were headed.”

No trouble.
First time I’ve heard Randall Shane lie, and it’s a more than a little unsettling to know how good he is at it.

“Yeah, well, kids do that sometimes,” Bob says, sounding a little uneasy.

“Detective Berg called earlier,” Shane says. “Apparently Seth forgot to file a flight plan.”

Bob is shaking his head. “I don’t know who the detective talked to, but Seth Manning, he’s like clockwork. He’s been flying out of this facility since he was sixteen, and he never misses.”

“You seem very certain.”

Bob nods emphatically. “I was his original flight instructor. Seth was one of my best students. Not just because he had a feel for it—lots of students have that—but because he’s meticulous and organized. A good pilot is always prepared, always checking, that’s as important as any of the physical skills. Some students I had to drum that in, but not Seth. I kid you not, he enjoys working through the checklists. Which is part of what makes him an excellent flight instructor.”

“Uh-huh,” says Shane. “So you passed the torch.”

“You could say that.”

“Mind if I ask why?”

Bob gives him a wary look. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I developed cardiac problems a couple years ago. Persistent episodic tachycardia, which is doc talk for bum ticker. Flunked the physical.”

Shane nods. “Some guys cheat on that, find a friendly doctor.”

“Not me. It was time to retire, before I killed some kid.”

“So you’re absolutely sure that Seth didn’t fly out of here yesterday?”

“Positive,” Bob says, getting a bit huffy. “You know why
I’m positive? Because that’s his Skylane right there. Got a prime tie-down right by the flight school.”

Shane looks out the window, spots the plane, seems satisfied. “Any aircraft missing or stolen in the last few days?”

Friendly Bob has had about enough of us. I can tell because his big ears have reddened. He backs away from the counter, putting space between himself and Shane. “What kind of crap are you talking, mister? Why would Seth Manning steal a plane when he has one of his own?”

“For thrills? To impress a pretty girl?”

“That’s bull. The kid is no thief. What is this really about? Who sent you here?”

Shane drums his fingers lightly on the Formica, rat-a-tat-tat. “It’s like I said, Mrs. Garner is trying to locate her daughter.”

Bob looks sick, puts his hand to his chest.

“Seth must have friends at this airfield,” Shane persists. “Maybe he borrowed a plane.”

Bob sits down, massaging his chest. His face has drained, leaving him pale as a paper napkin. I’m worried he’s going to keel over, but Shane isn’t backing off.

“Same answer,” says Bob, sounding faint. “He’d file a flight plan.”

“Charter flights?” Shane says. “Could Seth have chartered a plane?”

Bob sounds pissed. “You don’t give up, do you? Anybody can charter a flight, but why would he? His father’s company has a King Air 350. Take you anywhere in North America, at altitude and in style.”

Shane smiles, winks at me, as if we’ve just won something special. “A King, huh? Pricey.”

Bob snorts. “Not compared with a Lear, it ain’t.”

“Couple of million though, right?”

“More.”

“And you know it’s out there in the hangar because there’s no flight plan on file.”

Bob looks like he wants to spit. His color has improved and he’s stopped rubbing his chest. Maybe the bad spell has passed.

“Exactly right,” he says, jutting out his chin.

Shane nods, satisfied. “Mr. Cody, here’s the deal. Show us the King, we’ll get out of your hair.”

“I’m not showing you anything, mister.”

“Fine. Then give me the tail number, I’ll check it out myself.”

Shane doesn’t say anything, but something tells me he wants me to chime in, make myself heard.

“Please?” I ask him. “It could be really important.”

Five minutes later we’re approaching the hangar, one of three in this particular row. Condos for airplanes. Sort of like really wide storage units, with big roll-down doors. In the end poor Mr. Cody more or less surrendered, handed Shane the keys to the lockup. According to Cody, each unit can hold two aircraft, with openings on either side of the corrugated steel buildings, but Edwin Manning’s corporate airplane has a hangar all to itself.

“You think they took off in daddy’s plane, got in trouble somewhere else?” I ask.

“Working theory,” Shane says, fitting the key in the appropriately numbered door. “Subject to change.”

Inside the hangar our footsteps echo against the metal sides of the building. It’s so dim and darkly shadowed that I can’t see much of anything until Shane finds a switch and trips the overhead lights.

“Surprise, surprise,” he says.

The hangar is empty.

“What do we do now?” I ask.

Behind us the door swings open, shifting the light. Before I can turn, a ragged, high-pitched voice says, “Keep your hands where I can see ‘em.”

Standing behind us is a hefty, big-bellied man in a baggy black tracksuit. He has a shaved head, a boxer’s flattened nose, puffy eyelids and scar-thickened lips. In his hand is a shiny black gun.

26. The Man From Wonderbra

My first mugging was in Manhattan. On Fifth Avenue, to be exact. About four months after Kelly was born, my mother decided I needed a day off. A chance, she said, to be a grown-up for a little while, on my own. Bless her, she gave me a hundred dollars and told me to take the train into the city, have lunch at the Museum of Modern Art—they had a great little Italian café she loved—and buy myself something pretty.

“Window-shop on Fifth Avenue,” she said. “I mean really look. There might be something there for you.”

A hundred dollars was a lot for my mother, but I thought it would go further at, say, Macy’s, than some upscale boutique, and since part of me was still a bratty seventeen-year-old, I said so.

“I don’t mean to buy,” she told me, squeezing my hands. “To learn from. Look and learn.”

Look and learn.

Truer words and all that. The only class I’d ever really excelled in was home ec, and that was because of sewing. Having watched my mother stitch my little dresses together, and most of her own clothing, as well, I knew how the
machine worked, wasn’t afraid of the flashing needle, and that put me ahead of the other girls. Plus I was interested in how clothes were designed and cut out and assembled.

So there I was, looking and learning, and loving every minute of it. I was a grown-up in the big city, studying retail fashion. Not just style and quality of the clothing, but how it was presented. The design and execution of the window display, the whole look of the thing. I wasn’t taking notes, but my eyes were soaking it all in and my brain was thinking, why does Mom want me to do this, what does she have in mind? It was intriguing, exciting. It might, just might, be a clue about what I should do, how I might live. And that, of course, is when I got mugged.