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

out of his skin when it abruptly swung open. Woody was standing there, arms folded as if showing he had nothing to hide. Ingrid stood beside him along with four upright, large green duffels.

“There it is,” Woody gruffly said.

“Open them,” Erik demanded, somewhat surprised by the confidence in his voice.

Woody fumbled, but did as told.

“Turn them toward me. How much?”

“Every last dollar, approximately two point three million.”

“It better all be there. Put the clips back on and hand ‘em to me.”

A sniveling Woody added, “You know that ‘cause of you I’m going to lose everything. I already resigned from Shuttle Air and thanks to what fucking Shepard said, they won’t take me back.”

“That’s great. I gain a seniority number. Plus, you’re a lousy pilot anyway, so everyone will be safer.”

The color drained from Woody’s face and Ingrid began to utter something, but Erik’s words shut her up. “It wasn’t your money to start with.”

There were lots of questions in her eyes as an obviously agitated Ingrid finally snarled, “How do we know you won’t tell your cohorts?”

“I’m afraid you don’t and that’s exactly the way I want it because you didn’t only steal, you’re also guilty of murder.”

“Murder? You’re a fucking head case!” Ingrid hollered. “That thug buddy of yours didn’t die. Even you—”

“Christina Shepard is dead. Complete silence. “And the way I see it, you’re as guilty as if you shot her.”

“Dead? How? Was she murdered?” an ashen-faced Woody asked?

“Read about it in the newspaper.”

Neither Woody nor Ingrid uttered a word.

Erik took a step back and stared from Woody to Ingrid. “I’m speaking for Christina when I say I hope you go to bed every night for the rest of your lives wondering who might be comin’ for you.” Erik watched his words sink in, hoping they would ultimately percolate down through their gray matter and remain with them as he clumsily picked up the bags. This seemed all too easy? While dragging the bags to his car, he felt like a cowboy in a John Wayne movie, with a rifle sighted on his back. But he fought off the impulse to glance over his shoulder. Once the bags were in the trunk, he looked back at the still-open doorway, as empty as a tomb.

As Erik drove away, Ingrid said, “He’s got the money, but you think he’ll tell his buddy?”

“I hope not.”

“Yeah, but he said...”

“Goddamn it, Ingrid. I heard what he said. But he probably cut his own deal and left that guy out. He’s as guilty as we are.”

“I pray you’re right. We should have removed a few hundred thousand for ourselves.”

“Oh, really? And what happens if I’m wrong, he does split it and his partner doesn’t get his full share? You heard what he said yesterday about Stephanie. Instead, you’d better be thinking about how the hell we’re going to make ends meet. We’re flat broke, on our asses, and—”

“On our asses? Screw you. First, it was the Navy where they wouldn’t let you fly ‘cause of your boozing. It was just a matter of time until the same thing caught up with you at the airline. Now, we’ll add this to your list. I thought I’d married into the big time with you, but the bush leagues would be more appropriate. I called the real estate and they’re putting our house on the market, tomorrow.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Once the victim’s identity became known, Daly and Morganthaler were immediately summoned to the Burger King. As Daly donned his gloves and glasses and gazed at the body, he recalled how incredibly beautiful Christina Shepard was in life. It bothered him to see her body covered with blood from a gaping head wound. The NYPD crime scene forensic technicians were just finishing up with their measuring, scraping and photographing and were ready to remove the body to the morgue. Morganthaler knew one, a nerdy-looking, thin Medical Examiner with a pencil mustache and thick glasses who was dressed in a jacket about five sizes too large. “What’s it look like?” he asked the ME.

“Pending the final autopsy findings, it appears she had a tonic-clonic seizure and struck, then snapped her head back hard on the railing,” he said, pointing to the area where customers stood in line waiting to be served. “Preliminary findings point to a ruptured major external carotid artery to the brain and she bled to death, both internally and externally.”

Daly just sighed, relieved she didn’t lose control of bodily functions as frequently happens. Morganthaler ordered her apartment roped off and the two cops drove there to search in the hope of finding some clues to the robbery. After ducking under the yellow tape, the first thing they noticed was a package in the mailbox. Opening it, they saw it contained a bottle of a prescription medication called Keppra sent by a mail order pharmacy based upon a prescription written by a Doctor Friedman. However, it was addressed to a Miss Megan Bauer in care of Christina Sheppard. Was it sent by mistake? That was doubtful. The only error was in the spelling of Christina’s last name. They were puzzled because they’d been told the only other person who lived here was Bennedeto.

They gloved up and began at the rear of the cheerless house, working their way forward from the kitchen. The place smelled of dirty carpet and had more than a few areas of dust. More than living quarters, it better resembled somewhere to hole up from the real world. The dank bathroom, a nasty-looking place with oozing toothpaste on the counter, a cracked soap dish and strands of creepy-looking black mold throughout, was so small both men couldn’t fit in at the same time. Daly entered and found a free sample bottle of Gigotor with the name of the same Doctor Friedman on it. “Who and what do you suppose this is for?” he asked Morganthaler, holding the bottle up to the light. “And who the hell is Megan Bauer?”

“I don’t have the slightest