The Friday Edition (A Samantha Church Mystery) Page 19

  As Sam Church returned to the Truman County Airport, Grandview police officer Rey Estrada was in the middle of working a day shift. He was being dispatched to a busy intersection at Wadsworth Boulevard and Colfax Avenue to direct traffic.

  A traffic light had malfunctioned.

  Thirty-three

  The county airport was quiet and empty of cars when Sam returned.

  As she drove to the main terminal she passed by single-engine airplanes fastened securely to the ground and she remembered Brady telling her that the high winds that often whipped along the Front Range could topple them as if they were toys.

  The warm winter sun met her as she walked from her car to the building. There was no one at the information desk as she expected, but she heard the faint sound of a man’s voice and moved in that direction. She followed the sound to the corner office at the end of the hall. He hung up the phone just as Sam reached the office door. She knocked hesitantly and peered inside.

  “Knock, knock,” she said.

  “Hello,” the man said, looking up from his chair.

  Sam’s attention was immediately drawn to the windowed-walls, which offered a generous view of the Front Range, showing foothills, draped in snow and magnificently clear, free from the brown cloud that often clung to them on winter days.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Yes, I hope so,” Sam said. “I was looking for the manager.”

  She could detect a hint of rich pipe tobacco in the air as she stepped inside the office.

  “You found him. Gary Gorton. What can I do for you?”

  His voice was light and soft-spoken. His friendly smile seemed to match his personality. Sam guessed him to be in his early forties. She thought he might be younger, but a receding hairline made it hard to tell. He was tall and slender and had a firm handshake.

  “Sam Church,” she said. “I was here earlier this morning for the exhibit. I brought a friend, Brady Gilmore. He mentioned you by name. Perhaps you know him?”

  “Oh, sure I know Brady. He’s more interested in the airport and the planes than anyone I’ve ever known. We’ve spent a lot of time talking.”

  Gary extended his hand toward a chair. She felt welcome, but had yet to tell him she was a reporter and why she had come. It was frequent experience for reporters that people often did an about-face after they learned they were talking to one who was working on a story.

  “I’m a reporter with the Grandview Perspective and when Brady and I were here earlier, he said something that, well, piqued my interest. I came back hoping you might be here. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

  Sam waited for Gary’s reluctance to surface about talking to the press.

  “Sure, sit down.”

  “Are you the manager of the airport?” she asked, relieved by his willingness.

  “We call it director of aviation, but it means the same,” he said. “Are you doing a story on county airports?”

  “I’m not sure what kind of a story I’ll write, if anything,” Sam said. “Our conversation is just background for now. If that changes I’ll let you know.”

  “What did Brady tell you that has you so interested?” Gary asked.

  Sam fished for a pen and reporter’s notebook from her backpack. “He mentioned something about light-activated runways.”

  Gary nodded. “We have two, hard-surfaced 8,000-foot runways where pilots can and do activate the lights. Those runways can also be expanded to 10,000 feet or even 12,000 feet if needed.”

  “What makes county airports in Denver so popular? There are four, right?”

  “Five, counting ours. When DIA opened, it was the best thing for us.”

  “How so?”

  “Business has soared at each airport,” Gary said. “Centennial Airport has always been a big plus for Araphoe County, even before DIA. Of the roughly 420 control towers in the U.S., we rank about 150 in terms of busiest, but Centennial is easily within the top twenty-five. By shifting so far east, DIA changed the controlled air space around Denver so that now there’s a north-south flight corridor from Wadsworth west to the foothills. It makes it easier for private jets to travel to this area and land at this airport.”

  “How does the number of planes that take off and land here compare with Centennial Airport?” Sam asked.

  Gary opened a desk drawer and sifted through several files before he pulled one out and set it on the desk. The room was quiet as he read and Sam could hear the tick, tick of a small clock on his desk.

  “Last year, our traffic count was about 160,000 takeoffs and landings. Centennial’s count last year was about 400,000,” Gary said.

  “I had no idea that county airports were so busy.”

  “Most people are surprised,” Gary said and returned the file to the drawer. “We’re home to forty corporate jets. Centennial has probably seventy or so jets.”

  He reached for his pipe in an ashtray on the windowsill.

  “Back to your question,” Gary said and clenched the pipe between his teeth. “We have eighty-one T-hangars, six executive hangars and a maintenance hanger. We also have here three of the five instrument landing systems located at general aviation airports in the metro area. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration recently placed a NEXTRAD weather radar facility here. And the Colorado National Guard built a $4.3 million armory and a $41 million communications facility here.”

  Gary stopped and tapped the pipe against his lips. “Lastly, in addition to Front Range Airport, we’re the only other airport in the metro area not located around any major residential areas. We have no indebtedness and, as result, users pay lower fees.”

  Gary clenched his pipe between his teeth and fixed his attention directly on Sam.

  “But something tells me you didn’t come here to talk about airport user fees.”

  She couldn’t help her laugh. “You’re right, Gary.”

  “Your initial interest was runways,” he said. “What did Brady say that sparked your interest?”

  Sam leaned forward in her chair. “Well, it’s not so much what he said that interested me, but what he didn’t say.”

  She stopped to collect her thoughts. “I saw a movie once where the pilots activated the runway lights like Brady said, but these weren’t ordinary pilots. They were drug runners. They’d land at local airports that weren’t staffed twenty-four hours a day, make their drop and take off. No one would be the wiser.”

  “I don’t recall the movie,” Gary said. “But if you’re asking if that could happen here, the answer is no because we operate round the clock. But I can tell you what’s more likely to happen.”

  Sam’s eyes widened in interest.

  “A drug drop like the one you described from that movie could happen very easily on some desolate county road, especially around here because of the sparse population,” he said.

  “That’s impossible,” Sam said, shaking her head.

  “I’m not kidding.”

  There was a thoughtful pause.

  “Brady knows more than he’s letting on,” Gary said.

  “How do you know?”

  “He’s told me.”

  “Told you what?” Sam said and tried not to sound amazed.

  “Off the record?” Gary asked straightforward.

  She studied him a moment, but there was nothing to read in his face, neither hostility nor warmth. There must be a reason Brady wanted me to take him to the exhibit that he could not tell me directly, Sam thought.

  A surge of new-found energy stirred within her.

  “Of course, off the record,” she said.

  “Drug drops do happen on the outlying county roads around here,” Gary said.

  Sam’s eyebrows drifted toward the ceiling. “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I were,” he said. “But it happens.”

  “For how long now?” Sam asked.

  “At least the last five years,” he replied.

  “Five years!” she said.
>
  Gary nodded. “Maybe longer.”

  “How do you know this?” Sam asked.

  When he didn’t answer, she asked, “Why haven’t you said anything?”

  The look on Gary’s face dissolved to fear.

  “About a month ago,” he said quietly. “A young woman was killed. I heard it was a suicide, but I have my doubts and I know Brady was real shaken up over it.”

  ‘Did you know her?” Sam asked trying to keep the sound of her voice neutral.

  Gary shook his head.

  “What do you think happened?” Sam asked leaning forward in her chair.

  “I don’t know, but I think the woman knew something that got her killed. But when I heard she might have committed suicide, I figured I wouldn’t read anything about it in the papers. I have a sister who’s a reporter for a newspaper, too. She’s forever telling me, newspapers don’t report suicides.”

  Sam nodded. “She’s right. Newspapers don’t report suicides unless they’re rich and famous, or someone very young.”

  “Did you hear about the woman’s death?” he asked.

  “Yes, I did,” she breathed.

  She debated whether to tell Gary the woman was her sister.

  “She, she was ...” Sam’s voice trailed off and her expression clouded with grief. She looked from Gary to the distant foothills.

  “You okay?” Gary asked.

  “I’m fine. How did you learn about the woman’s death?”

  “Brady told me,” Gary said and shrugged his shoulders. “He knows a lot more than people give him credit for. I guess they talked among him at work, thinking he doesn’t understand.”

  Gary laughed. “I’ve got news for them.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?” Sam asked.

  The light moment quickly turned somber.

  “I couldn’t prove there were drug drops happening, except by what Brady’s told me. But I know the kid, I know he couldn’t tell a lie. Call me a coward, but I didn’t want to end up like that poor young woman.”

  A heavy silence hung in the room. Sam thought of Robin in the picture that Brady had shown her earlier. She was young and free. Slender as a toothpick, her long thick hair flowing in the breeze that blew off the lake that day. Sam thanked Gary Gorton and left the terminal.

  When she was safely inside her car, she locked the door, as if to keep out the evil in the world. Tears began to fall. She cried hard, deep, heaving sobs that left her breathless. When she collected herself, she drove from the airport.

  The thought came to her as she turned onto Wadsworth. Sam could see Robin’s handwriting on the yellow sticky note the day she searched her condo.

  County Road 676.

  “Of course,” she said and pounded lightly on the steering wheel. “It makes sense now.”

  She thought of Rey and a moment of uncertainty set in.

  Wouldn’t he have said something to me by now?

  For a fleeting moment a reoccurring thought came that frightened her. The smile fell from her face.

  Sam had trusted Rey so readily all along. He had made it so easy to put her faith in him. But what if she had been wrong? Blinded by what she so desperately wanted to believe? What if Rey killed Robin or was the ringleader of this drug smuggling operation? He appeared to have a strict moral compass. And he was probably one of the nicest, most sincere people she had met in some time.

  But what if it was all an act?

  Sam had lived with a cop for nearly ten years. She often heard Jonathan say how easily and quickly the line between police and criminal could be erased by corruption. She had no doubt that fine line Jonathan had so often mentioned did exist. But Robin was a good judge of character. Always had been. Because she trusted Rey it gave Sam hope that he had not crossed that line.

  She smiled with satisfaction as she pulled to the side of the road to page Rey.

  She could hardly wait to tell him about County Road 676.

  Thirty-four

  It was ten o’clock Sunday morning and Rey still had not returned Sam’s page.

  He was usually prompt in calling back, but she told herself not to worry. She wanted to send another page when she woke Sunday, but decided against it. Sundays for Rey Estrada meant family, a day reserved for his wife and daughters. His morning started with church followed by brunch.

  She could wait until Monday to tell him about her conversation with Gary Gorton and what she suspected about County Road 676.

  Sam left her apartment, wishing she had her family to take to church and brunch. Instead, she was headed to the Truman County District Attorney’s Office to get Robin’s possessions from her office. It had been a month since her death on Saturday when she and Brady were at the airshow. Since Sam was going to the cemetery, she asked if Brady wanted to come with her. He declined and she went alone. She stayed only long enough that afternoon to adjust the fresh flowers she bought in a vase. Robin’s grave was still dressed only with a temporary marker. Sam wasn’t looking forward to picking out a headstone.

  A warm winter sun and a vast blue sky greeted her as she walked to her car, improving her somber mood. The sun always had a way of lifting her spirits. As she drove from her complex, she saw the foothills covered in winter white.

  The parking lot at the DA’s office was empty. Sam picked Sunday for a reason. She did not want to talk with Robin’s co-workers. She entered the underground parking garage and pulled the Mustang into a space close to the elevator. She knew she should take the stairs because she needed the exercise, but she wasn’t feeling especially energetic and opted for the elevator.

  Sam pressed the “up” arrow. One minute became two, then three. Five minutes passed and the elevator had not arrived.

  “Come on, come on,” she said and pressed the button several more times. She waited. Nothing happened. As Sam reached for the button a third time, she heard the distant sound of a car entering the garage. Moments later a door slammed. She could hear footsteps.

  She pushed the button hard several times. The footsteps were getting closer. She had hoped to be alone today and didn’t want to make small talk in the elevator with a stranger. She pushed the button again.

  “Come on,” she said. She stepped back from the elevator and looked for the stairs, realizing she could no longer hear the footsteps. It seemed almost too quiet. She glanced around the garage, aware of her heart beating hard. She had a fleeting thought of leaving and returning tomorrow when she heard the footsteps again. She looked over her shoulder and the sound stop.

  She waited and listened. Her eyes darted quickly around garage. “Hello?” her voice echoed in the distance. “Who’s there?”

  She listened. Silence.

  She stepped closer to the elevator button and pushed hard. As she went for the button again she felt someone grab her right arm, yank and twist it behind her back with such intensity that she felt her palm touching her shoulder blade. A loud cry of pain escaped from her lungs.

  Sam tried to scream, but she was shoved face first into the elevator doors. Her upper lip made impact with the door and immediately began to pulsate with pain. The collision drove the air from her lungs and she gasped until she felt a hand cover her mouth so she couldn’t shout for help.

  Her attacker’s grip closed tightly around her mouth and her nose. Her eyes widened and she panicked at the thought of suffocating. She tried desperately to look over her shoulder to see who was behind her. Her aggressor was stronger and forced her to keeping looking straight ahead.

  Her attacker released her arm. The fleeting sense of relief was replaced quickly with a sharp, swift blow to her right side near her kidney. She tried to cry out in pain, but her assailant’s hand was still firmly placed over her mouth. Nothing but a muffled cry escaped between her attacker’s fingers.

  Her attacker struck her kidneys a second, then a third time. Sam felt her knees buckle. A wave of nausea engulfed her. He grabbed her arm again and twisted. It felt as if he was about to pull it from the socke
t. She tried desperately not to move for fear it would break. She must have bitten the inside of her mouth when her face hit the door. She tasted salty blood as it mixed with her saliva. Her lower back throbbed with a blunted pain foreign to her.

  The intense pain commanded her attention, overloading her senses. She felt on the verge of unconsciousness. A thousand tiny black spots danced before her eyes, but she struggled to stay alert. She tried again to look over her shoulder, but felt her assailant’s hot breath against her neck.

  “Listen, bitch, we’re gonna tell you this once. Lay off, or you’ll end up like your sister.”

  Sam’s attacker twisted her arm harder. The force caused her to stand on her toes to relieve some of the pressure. She tried to cry out, but it was useless. She closed her eyes hard hoping the pain would stop. He forced her into the wall.

  “Wanna end up like her?”

  Her attacker let go of her arm and it fell limply to her side. He threatened her not to tell anyone about being attacked in the garage and she felt another piercing blow to her kidney. Her attacker finally removed his hand from her mouth. Sam gasped, both for air and in pain.

  Her enemy stepped away from her and she dropped to the concrete. The stark cement floor commanded all her senses. When she felt the swift kick to her midsection from her assailant’s boot, she was free to cry out in pain, but only whimpered, too weak to produce the slightest sound. She could feel drops of saliva and blood dripping from her mouth and the cold as it rose from the ground.

  She lay crumpled and twisted on the ground like a pile of old rags, breathing shallowly, trying desperately to stay conscious. Her eyelids became heavy and the feeling of pain was fading away. She hoped it was over. Sam felt herself slipping from consciousness, as though a black veil was being dropped over her eyes.

  Her aggressor lowered himself next to her. His breathing was labored.

  “No more,” she wheezed. “Pl … please.”

  “The next time we come it’ll be worse,” he breathed into her ear. “Think about this the next time you visit the police garage.”