Trapped (15 page)

always right about these situations. His track record is nothing

short of amazing. That’s why I’m responding, and why the

agency will take a look. I’m leaving the legal paperwork that

will enable us to pen register your telephone lines, have it on

the record if a kidnapper calls. You okay with that?”

“Yes, of course. Whatever it takes.”

“Let’s hope Randall got it wrong this time and your

daughter is just acting out. Believe me, hard as that is to deal

with—I have two grown daughters, so I know—hard as that

is, any sort of abduction scenario is much, much worse.” She

hands Shane a legal-size envelope, the paperwork for the

phone tap. “Sign and fax to the Melville office, they’ll get

the ball rolling. Are we clear?”

“Yes, ma’am, all clear,” says Shane.

She ignores the taunt, turns to me. “Mrs. Garner?”

“Find my daughter. That’s my only concern.”

“We’ll do everything we can. Now if you’ll excuse me, I

have to be in Washington by noon.” She shakes my hand

again, gives Shane a sisterly peck on the cheek.

“Don’t worry,” she assures me on her way out. “You’re in

capable hands.”

114

Chris Jordan

* * *

drinking too much tea and trying to clear my head. Checking

my cell for messages that haven’t been left, generally

working my anxiety up to higher and higher levels. Desper-

ately wanting something, anything to happen, to convince me

we’re going forward, making progress.

The phone rings. My office phone.

I enter at a run, find Shane with the phone already up to

his ear, saying, “Yes. Yes. Got it. Thank you very much.”

He hangs up.

With my permission, Shane has cleared a space on my

worktable for his laptop, one of those sleek, turbocharged

things, with a wide screen and a titanium case. A spiral

notebook lies open, filled with neat, legible handwriting, some

of it emphatically underlined. The phone has been repositioned

nearby. He’s been busy, obviously, and I feel a little twinge of

guilt for getting much-needed sleep while he worked the

phones and the Web, set up the meeting with his high-ranking

friend.

“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

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115

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 Far-

mingdale. 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 ab-

duction 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.

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Chris Jordan

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 under-

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117

stood 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 Op-

erations. 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. Tem-

perature 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.”

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Chris Jordan

“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 photo-

graph, 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.”

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119

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 detec-

tive 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 instruc-

tor. 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 busi -

ness, 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

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Chris Jordan

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 sat-

isfied. “Any aircraft missing or stolen in the last few days?”

Friendly Bob has had about enough of us. I can tell be-

cause 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 Man-

ning 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 char-

tered a plane?”

Bob sounds pissed. “You don’t give up, do you? Anybody