Flying Too Close to the Sun by George Jehn (most inspirational books TXT) 📗

easy one. It’s like sinking your teeth into one end of a calzone, when the hot cheese comes out the other end and burns you. Solving this is a mission for me, like the robbery was an art form for the perp or perps.” Daly hesitated and added, “I do not like to lose,” intense beads of sweat slowly forming under the collar of his starched shirt.

“Just so you know, neither do I.”

.     .     .

Along with a throbbing skull Juni also had burning anger, but wouldn’t phone Christina or Erik as the cops had probably already interrogated them. He found an old Mets cap in the trunk, moved the clips to the largest position and gingerly covered his head. For now, his singular priority was to put as much distance between himself and the rotten city of Boston, as quickly as possible. But he vowed to return, patronizing some local saloons and softball games in the hope of running into the scumbag who clobbered him. Gobbling up the asphalt on I-90 as quickly as his condition and the weather allowed, he constantly rubbed his neck and forehead in a vain attempt to rid himself of the pain emanating from inside his skull. There was still a decent river of traffic and the first roadside rest provided a dark enough location to discard the stolen license plates and purchase gauze and aspirin in the 24-hour convenience store. As the adrenaline rush from the run-in with Mr. Concrete Face dissipated, driving down the glistening, night-draped interstates, the fog and light drizzle occasionally changed into an intermittent lashing rain clattering down, snapping against the windshield like pebbles. He studied the rain as if it held an answer. As the dark highway whipped past, the hour got later and the traffic lightened. Although exhausted and hurting, especially when he had to move his head horizontally, the weather required slower speed, which provided a bizarre form of relief, allowing him to hopefully come up with a vital but elusive piece. He liked short and finite moves to solve a mystery, so during the arduous journey he repeatedly went over and over what happened, but despair replaced hope with each passing mile. Closer to home he lit up a Marlboro, but even that tasted lousy and he threw it out the window, vowing to quit. After passing through just awakening towns, he pulled into the driveway a bit past four, in a constant drizzle. Everything appeared ugly as the summer sun was ineffectually attempting to spread its first gray tint on top of the cloudy eastern sky and the sopping wet air was beginning to warm ever so slightly. With mist still hiding the dawn he went to bed after fitting large gauze pads on his wound so no blood would stain the pillow case. After penning a note for his wife asking not to be awakened, he was wide awake anyway because lying on his back to shield the wound from view meant placing more pressure on it. Although his head felt pulverized, anger still took the top spot because he had failed. If his instincts were running in high gear knowing what that ugly bastard was up to would have surfaced in time. It also scared the hell out of him to contemplate the future. He finally dozed off, pondering how different this could have ended, with no one but himself to blame.

.     .     .

The investigators spent the remainder of the night conducting interrogations and took possession of Christina’s laptop computer, along with the computers and cellphones of anyone else who might have been involved. The interviews were fairly brief because they didn’t have any leads to pursue yet. At Christina’s place, considering her earnings they were surprised at how shoddy it was and it immediately raised a red flag. They took note of a new giant screen TV and stereo. When asked, she produced her previously-dated credit card receipts for them. They were also able to get a pretty good idea of her finances, in the process suspecting her credit card was maxed out. Daly asked her, “Does anyone else live here?”

“I have a boyfriend who occasionally spends some time here.”

“Is he also a pilot?”

“No. He’s a baggage handler for the same airline at LaGuardia.”

“Meaning he has access to the aircraft?”

“Yes. His name is David Bennedeto. But, what is this all about?”

Both cops jotted down his name. “All we can tell you is that a substantial amount of money aboard your aircraft is now missing.”

She laughed nervously. “How much? I sure could use some.”

“We can’t divulge that.”

“If you find out David’s got it tell him to give me some,” she joked, hoping this would demonstrate her non-involvement.

Walking to the car, Daly told Morganthaler to run a credit check on her first thing in the morning. “I’m willing to bet she’s hurting financially, which could provide a motive.”

“I was also surprised a captain would live in a dump like that.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions. Wait and see what turns up.”

They interviewed the flight attendants, all of whom also lived in Queens. Nothing new was unearthed, with all four seemingly in decent shape financially.

The final stop was Woody’s. Knowing you never really knew people fully and almost everyone had a small private room where they hid the truth about something, Morganthaler asked him, “Do you three pilots fraternize after work, visit each other’s homes or go out for drinks, stuff like that?”

Woody hesitated and finally answered, his face growing crimson. “I wouldn’t hang around with that bitch if she was the only other person on the face of...,” he snapped. But then he stopped and glanced meekly at the cops as though this statement might somehow incriminate him.

“Oh? Why not?” Daly immediately asked, liking what he heard because it might break open a tiny crack to squeeze information through.

Woody again hesitated and then answered with a question. “You guys have any lady cops who are your boss?”

Both men shook their heads.