Skyhook (19 page)

April braked to a halt and looked at Gracie’s outfit more closely. Stylish, but pushing the limits for a major lawfirm, April decided.

Black heels, a silk blouse tucked into a tweed miniskirt and a partially opened matching blazer. The male-grabbing visage was topped off by Gracie’s exceptionally full mane of reddish-blond hair blowing in the five-knot breeze.

Gracie came over and carefully climbed up on the wing to open the door as April ran the shutdown checklist and secured the cockpit.

“It’s good to see old Double-Oh-Seven-Whiskey again,” Gracie said, referring to the N6007W registration number of the aircraft she’d soloed in several years back.

“She still flies nice. Slow, but steady.”

“I see my booster cushion is still in the back.”

“Well, you always did insist on seeing over the rudder pedals.”

“You hungry?” Gracie asked.

April shook her head. “I think I had something for breakfast, but I’m not even sure I could tell you what. Not much appetite.”

“Yeah, I hear you. I forgot to eat before leaving the Queen Mary this morning.”

“You’ve named your boat the Queen Mary now?”

“No, no. That’s just how it feels.”

April unfolded herself from the cockpit as Gracie backed down to the ramp, carefully using the toes of her high heels on the boarding stand.

“I wouldn’t mind coffee while you wolf something down,” April said as she followed Gracie off the wing and into the private terminal. She left a fuel order and her cell phone number before proceeding to Gracie’s Corvette. They drove around the field to a faded coffee shop near the Museum of Flight, where they found a booth, and Gracie began pulling things from a small briefcase.

“Okay, April. Here is a briefing sheet with all the information, names, places and potential prices you’ll need to pursue booking a salvage operation, also a floppy disk with the same files on it for your computer, and your airline ticket.”

“My … what?”

“You’re going back to Anchorage on Alaska’s one p.m. flight.

You’ll meet this afternoon with the guy I think can do us the most good. Took me a few calls to find him. I’d come with you, but…”

April looked stunned, and Gracie was more or less enjoying the moment.

“I’m flying back to Anchorage? But… I have a job I have to get back to.”

“Already talked to your senior vice-president, Niles Dayton. He said to tell you he sends his deepest condolences. He’s got the two ship arrivals covered and will call if he needs anything, and said to tell you to take whatever time you need.”

“Niles Dayton said all that?”

“He did.”

April cocked her head suspiciously. “And what, exactly, did you tell him to elicit such a gracious response?”

“Oh, nothing much. Actually, I was talking to Hugh Wellsley, and he patched Niles Dayton into the call, and I might have mentioned something about the publicity value for Empress Lines.”

“Publicity value?”

“Sure. Loyal daughter and Empress vice-president embarks on noble mission to save a valuable World War Two warbird from the ravages of saltwater. The Anchorage Times reporter will meet with you tomorrow. He’s excited. Of course, he’ll be more excited when he sees the girl on the other end of the name.”

“Wait just a minute here. You arranged press coverage? Gracie, I’m not sure that’s a wise idea.”

“He loved it. So did Hugh.”

“Hugh? How do you know Hugh?”

“You introduced us at a party last fall, remember?”

“Oh, yeah,” April replied, suddenly shaken by the thought that an interview could lead to the drunk flying charge blowing into the public arena.

“We’ve got to get that bird off the bottom, April,” Gracie was saying. “At the very least we have to prove that the prop came off. Ted Greene is ready to march on the FAA the moment we get hard evi

dence. There are no guarantees of success, but it’s just remotely possible he could talk some sense into the enforcement division.”

“But, you really think … Does he think it’s wise to go public with this?”

Gracie nodded. “Alaska is a rarified aviation environment, and there will likely be a negative backlash against the FAA for moving so fast without evidence. Lots of Alaskans are pilots, as we both know.” Gracie looked at her watch. “There’s more to tell you, but I’d better get you over to Seatac.”

“Gracie, there’s something I have to tell you,” April said, studying her coffee cup before meeting Gracie’s eyes. “The night of the accident, Dad bought some liquor for a planned party in Sitka. That worm Harrison called me. He knows.”

Gracie sat back hard in the booth. “Oh, God, no!”

“Dad wasn’t drinking, Gracie!”

“He might as well have been,” Gracie said slowly. “Because this may kill us.”

The lobby of the Regal Alaskan Hotel had been designed to resemble the interior of a rough-hewn national-park lodge, but the hotel itself was anything but remote. The structure occupied the south end of Anchorage’s Lake Spenard, which each summer claimed the title of the busiest seaplane base in the world.

April alighted from the hotel’s airport shuttle van and unzipped her white parka as she entered the lobby, hardly noticing the array of mounted game trophies on the walls. Deer, elk, moose, and a selection of smaller animals were everywhere, but only the fire burning in the huge river-rock fireplace caught her attention.

She’d tried to fight off depression all the way from Seattle, but the dark bow wave of reality had been slowly winning. Arlie Rosen had not fallen off the wagon. Her mother would have known. She shoved the other disturbing aspects of Rachel’s responses to the back of her mind and tried to close them away.

The phone call she’d made to her mother in flight hadn’t helped.

“He’s taking this very hard, April.”

“Try to get him to go to a counselor, Mom.”

“I am trying. And he’s refusing. He says he’ll handle it, but. .

.” April could hear her sigh deeply on the other end. “I’ve never seen your father this despondent.” The worrisome report had made the short drive to the hotel a blur of thoughts and renewed determination to extricate her father from the FAA-imposed purgatory consuming him, and her. But salvation would only truly come from raising the wreckage of the old warbird. If every one of those Anchorage-purchased liquor bottles could be found still stowed and unopened, the FAA’s case would fall apart.

Okay, where’s my pilot?

April surveyed the lobby, noting the huge, stuffed eight-foot-tall Alaskan brown bear in a glass case by the front desk. The hapless former bear had been posed by a taxidermist in all its grizzly ferocity, and even though it was long since deceased, April realized she was automatically giving it a very wide berth.

She walked toward the fireplace, spotting no one even remotely fitting the description of a bush pilot. She sat in one of the big chairs adjacent to the roaring fire and reread the note from Gracie.

April—You’ll be met in the lobby by Scott McDermott, whom I hired to fly you in his Grumrnan Widgeon over to Valdez to meet with a salvage operator named Jim Dobler, who will have a plan figured out when you get there. He’s been recommended by one of our major clients whom I happened to be talking to today by phone to one of his drilling rigs in Venezuela. My client’s a billionaire and very friendly. I know he owns a big ship repair and salvage operation in Mobile, Alabama. He said this was too small a job and too far north for his people to take on, but he said that Dobler’s a trusted friend, and he promised to lean on him to help us, which he did. The object is to get a diver down to position a harness around the Albatross, then use a barge mounted winch to haul it to the surface and tow it slowly to shore, if it stays intact. He can do all that. Keep me posted.

I’ll be in the office late and on the cell. Go, girl. Love ya!

The aroma of something more pungent than wood smoke was assaulting her nose. She recognized it as cigar smoke and turned to

track it to the source, a long, Churchill-size stogie a man on the far end of the couch had just fired up. She wrinkled her nose in disapproval, but either he wasn’t looking or was pretending not to notice.

That figures, she thought. He had unkempt sandy hair and an abbreviated handlebar mustache, as well as a weathered brown leather jacket and a dirty, blue, oil-stained parka he’d draped boorishly over an adjacent chair. Your basic bush-class Alaskan, she concluded, rejecting the idea that he was merely some homeless male who’d wandered past hotel security. The ring on his right middle finger and the expensive boots he was wearing leavened the overall impression somewhat.

But to her mind, the cigar was a fatal flaw.

Why on earth would a woman want to get intimate with someone like him? she mused.

April cautioned herself that, objectionable or not, he’d seated himself around the fireplace first. But he’s stinking up the whole place with that thing.

“Excuse me,” April said, giving in to her irritation.

“Yes?” the man answered without looking at her.

“Would you mind not smoking that in here, please?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, taking an even deeper drag on the cigar and blowing the smoke out slowly. “As a matter of fact, I would mind not smoking this in here.” He grinned at her. He was in his thirties, she figured, and obviously an arrogant maverick. “After all, this is the smoking section,” he said. “That’s why they have ashtrays here.”

April tried to suppress her surprise. “They allow smoking here?”

“Yes, ma’am. This is Alaska. We aren’t very politically correct up here,” he said, emphasizing the first syllables. He grinned at her, flashing surprisingly perfect teeth as he pulled on the cigar once more.

April rolled her eyes and stood up, moving away from the fireplace seating as she punched the number Gracie had provided into her cell phone.

“Puffin Flying Service,” a male voice answered on the second ring.

“This is April Rosen. I believe a Miss Gracie O’Brien arranged a charter from Anchorage to Valdez for me today?”

“That’s right, Miss Rosen. It’s all ready for you.”

“Yeah, well, I was told the pilot would meet me in the lobby of the Regal Alaskan, and I have yet to find him.”

“I know for a fact he’s there,” the man said, his voice echoing slightly, which was puzzling. She checked the volume of the cell phone’s earpiece, but it seemed normal.

“Have you talked to him? Where exactly is he?”

“Well, in a way I’ve talked to him, because he is me, and I know I’m here waiting for you. I’m your pilot.”

“You’re here?”

“Yes. In the lobby.”

April scanned the front desk and the entrance to the bar as well as the staircase without success.

“But where? I don’t see you.”

“Right this second I’m watching a very attractive lady who hates cigars talk on her cell phone.”

This time the echo of his voice in her free ear was too loud to ignore, and April turned toward the fireplace. The man with the handlebar mustache was grinning as he waved his cigar at her and nodded toward his cell phone.

Oh, great! she thought, punching off the call. She waited for him to approach, taking his offered hand reluctantly as she tried to ignore the firm grip and slightly calloused feel of his palm.

“Do you always treat your clients this rudely?” she asked.

He chuckled. “Just having a little fun. April, is it?”

“Miss Rosen will do fine,” she replied, a frosty edge in her voice.

“All right. Miss Rosen, then,” he said evenly.

“I’m not flying with an armed incendiary device. Understood?” she said, pointing to the cigar.

“It’s actually a Cuesta-Rey number ninety-five, but if you insist…”

“And I do.”

“Then I’ll be glad to put it out of your misery.” He pulled a black tube from his pocket and carefully inserted the still-burning cigar before screwing the lid in place.

“What are you doing?” April yelped. “That thing’s still on fire.”

“This is a new toy. It keeps a burning cigar nice and fresh for later,” he said, grinning at her, “although I’m sure you think a fresh cigar is an oxymoron.”

“Where’s your aircraft, Mr. McDermott?”

“Captain McDermott, if you please,” he said with mock seriousness. “Or, you can call me Scott. Your choice.”

“Very well, Captain. Where’s your plane?”

“Off the back deck of the bar, Miss Rosen.” He offered his arm.

“May I escort you?”

“You may not. Just lead the way.”

“You have baggage?”

Just you, she thought, barely stifling a strong urge to voice the comeback that popped into her head. Gracie was obviously a bad influence. She nodded instead and pointed to a shoulder bag and a wheeled overnight bag, which he picked up after putting on his parka. He motioned her out through the Fancy Moose bar onto the terrace and the concrete walkway that was slick with Canada goose droppings all the way down to the water.

The small, six-seat 1952 Grumman Widgeon amphibian Gracie had chartered was tied up to the hotel’s tiny dock. Two small engines sat atop the wing, close into the fuselage, making the diminutive flying boat almost an abbreviated version of her father’s Albatross.

McDermott opened the side door along the left flank and loaded the bags before stepping back to let her maneuver herself inside and up between the seats into the right seat of the cockpit. He followed, securing the door and handing her a headset.

“Now, Miss Rosen, this aircraft can take off and land on water, and—”

She had her right hand up to stop him. “I’m a licensed private pilot with an instrument rating. And, I’ve got a floatplane ticket. So please don’t try to snow me.”

McDermott looked hurt. “What makes you think I’d do such a thing?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Let’s just call it instinct.”

She saw him studying her eyes for a few seconds before chuckling and turning his attention to pulling an ancient, yellowed checklist from a sidewall pocket. He plopped it in her lap and pointed to it.

“If you’re a licensed pilot, you’re working crew, and in this case, you’re my copilot, whether you’re paying the bill or not.”

“Okay.”

“You read the checklist, follow my instructions, and speak up the instant there’s anything you think I should know.”