Eden's Dream (19 page)

“No you won't. You'll hand it to me in person. New York's a five-hour drive. It's even shorter by plane, and you've got flight benefits. I…I well I can always manage to ride a jump seat, and if all else fails…I'm a private pilot. I own a small plane with a couple of buddies.”

Private pilot? But hadn't he told her that there'd been no money for flight lessons? She replayed his words, struggling to remember. No, what he'd actually said was he'd wanted to be a commercial pilot. It hadn't worked out.

Blinking back the moisture, Eden forced herself to smile. “Now scram. You have to get back to work, and I've got a meeting to attend.”

Noah rose reluctantly. “Only if you're sure. Meanwhile, work on that Ken person, see if you can charm him into releasing his buddy's identity. If all else fails, I'll be forced to put on the pressure.” He winked at her. “I'll call tonight. Stay sweet and try to stay out of trouble.” He blew her a kiss, picked up his briefcase and exited.

A
fter Noah left
, Eden entered the In-Flight conference room to find a solemn group waiting. “Am I late?” she asked, glancing at her watch.

“I looked for you,” Sinclair hastily inserted, “to let you know that we'd moved the meeting up.”

Eden's glance took in the various department heads seated around the horseshoe table. Also present were the chief pilot, legal counsel, public relations people, loss prevention representatives, and various layers of management. Eden slipped into the chair Jack, the chief pilot, held out. “Thanks. What did I miss?”

“Not much. We just got started.”

Sinclair, who was seated next to Jack, unfolded a newspaper. “Did you see this?”

Eden managed a nod. “Yes. It was pretty upsetting, especially since there's no credence to it.” She'd gotten everyone's attention.

“How do you know that?” Philip Feiner, Pelican's P.R. person, jabbed a stubby finger to make his point. “Says right here, this is a preliminary release by the NTSB.”

“Does it really? What does it actually say, Phil?” Eden challenged.

The rotund man made a harrumphing sound, cleared his throat and read from the paper. “Says preliminary findings from the NTSB indicate—” He held one hand up. “Okay, okay I'm wrong.”

Connie Messina, Pelican's legal counsel, spoke, getting everyone's attention. “People, can we get to the real reason we're here?”

“Rumor control?” Sinclair offered.

Tim, the person heading up the communications department, added, “Something's obviously got to be done. Our telephones are blowing up, and we've been flooded with calls thanks to the Internet and this newspaper on the stands. Every phone line's lit, and reservations lines are clogged. Frankly, we're overwhelmed.”

“Plus we're losing money. Business is almost nonexistent. Passengers are canceling like crazy.” That comment by the reservations director made everyone sit up and listen. “A spokesperson from the NTSB should call a press conference. Something needs to be done.”

“What would be the purpose of this press conference?” Jack, the chief pilot, asked.

“To challenge these supposed findings.”

Eden's voice broke as she posed the question. “As farfetched as some of these stories sound, are we certain that sabotage is clearly out of the question?”

“It's a ridiculous assumption,” Jack said firmly. “There's some perfectly good explanation for what caused the crash. That plane had a history of mechanical problems. Are we going to give in to hysteria? I vote we make no statements, and the whole thing will eventually blow over.”

“I beg to disagree. Silence is not the answer. We're all over the news. We have an obligation to the flying public to provide some kind of statement. A press release or some kind of news conference is highly recommended,” Connie Messina inserted. “We'll need someone with exceptional presentation skills and a certain amount of credibility to deliver the message. This thing should be nipped before it gallops way out of control. If our president and an NTSB representative appear on TV together, we at least stand a chance. How about that Noah Robbins? He's got lots of charisma, and he's eloquent.”

Tim offered up an opinion. “I think you're onto something, Connie.”

“Then we'll do it. We'll contact the NTSB and garner its support.” Phil Feiner was already up and halfway out the door. Done deal. Jack gave him a sour look. A master at recovery, he quickly changed faces when Phil said, “How's your nephew, Aaron? Has he found a job yet?”

The picture of affability, Jack smiled, but something seemed off. “He's still looking. You know of something?”

Eden noted the chief pilot's flushed face. His nephew Aaron was obviously not a topic he enjoyed discussing. She remembered bits and pieces of last evening's conversation. Ken Alexander had mentioned Aaron had substance abuse problems and was the chief pilot's nephew. No wonder his unease. What a stroke of luck though. Aaron was hardly a common name, and if she enlisted Michael Goldmuntz's help, it should be easy finding out his last name. Even better, she'd simply ask Jack.

Eden caught up with Jack just as he was exiting the room. When she touched his arm, he swung around, flashing her a practiced smile.

“How have you been, kiddo? We've missed you.” His voice was warm, welcoming.

“I'm fine.”

Jack touched her lightly on the shoulder. “We were all sorry to lose Rod. My men still talk about him. He was one helluva pilot.”

Eden nodded. “Thank you for saying that. It would have meant a lot to Rod to know he was highly regarded.” She switched the subject. “I didn't know you had a nephew that worked here.”

The light disappeared from Jack's eyes. “Used to work here. Aaron was laid off with the first set of cutbacks.”

“That's too bad. He hasn't been able to find anything else since then?”

“Times are tough,” Jack said suddenly anxious to leave.

Eden planted herself firmly in his path. “The reason I ask is because we're opening that temporary base in Newburgh.I'm going to need lots of people, and there's a good possibility the positions may become permanent. By the way, do I know Aaron?”

The chief pilot shrugged. “You might, though he looks nothing like me.” Jack patted his ample stomach “He's thin as a rail, has dark brown hair, wears it pulled back in a ponytail.”

Eden frowned as an image of a man surfaced. The description was identical to the man who'd almost run them down with his boat. “What's Aaron's last name?”

“Kilpatrick.”

“Can you ask him to call me?”

“If you're sure. He's got a bit of a reputation as a troublemaker.”

S
eated
at the table in the Pelican cafeteria, Michael Goldmuntz cupped his large fists around a steaming cup of coffee and waited for Eden to speak. When several seconds elapsed and small talk dwindled, he prompted, “Okay spill it. What's up?” Eden had seemed preoccupied for the ten minutes they'd sat there. Michael took her hand, squeezing gently. “'Fess up, kiddo. Something's bothering you.”

“How would I get in touch with one of your guys?” Eden asked softly.

Michael raised an eyebrow, joking. “Business or pleasure?” He winked at her so she would know he was pulling her leg.

Eden scowled at him. “Business of course.”

“Who are we talking about?”

Eden sipped the steaming brew and set down her cup. “Aaron Kilpatrick.”

“What do you want with him? The guy's bad news.”

“So I've heard.”

“Believe me, the man doesn't have one redeeming quality. From the day he'd been hired he'd been a major pain. Guy was as paranoid as they came, rebelled against authority, and acted out every chance he got. He's been in and out of rehabilitation programs. I've referred him to Employee Assistance so many times I've lost count.”

“Must be Kilpatrick you're talking about.” One of Michael's ramp agents pulled up a chair and sat, smiling vaguely in Eden's direction.

“Hi Glenn,” Michael greeted. “You know Eden.”

Glen nodded. “Yes, of course. What's Kilpatrick done lately?”

“Nothing that I know of. You still in touch with him?”

The ramp agent shrugged. “He used to call me every now and then. Loved to play poker. But I haven't heard from him lately. Someone told me he left town.”

“Where did he go?” Eden asked.

“Don't know. Petey in cargo services says someplace out west. All's I know is he let Petey stay in his place while he was gone. Was a real dump I hear. Petey had to get his old lady to come clean it. Roaches everywhere.”

“Does Petey still live there?” Eden probed.

“Nope. Couldn't wait to get out of Hollis. Moved back to the Bronx weeks ago. Kilpatrick done something to you?”

“No. I'm just trying to help him. I heard he's the chief pilot's nephew, and I've got openings to fill, so I thought I'd give the guy a break. You wouldn't by chance have his phone number?”

“It's disconnected. But I have his address.” After a while, he said, “You know there's a whole lot of guys laid off. I'd offer any of them a job before Kilpatrick. He's a lazy slug, and he's got a mean streak to him.”

“Kilpatrick's the one I'm interested in.”

Glenn opened a worn address book, ripped out an equally soiled back page and scribbled on it. “There.” He slid the scrap of paper in Eden's direction. “That's his last known whereabouts.”

“Thanks.” Eden pocketed the paper and pushed back her chair. “You've both been extremely helpful.”

Back in her office, Eden placed the paper on her desk, smoothing out the creases. Talk about lucking out. She'd hit the jackpot getting Kilpatrick's address. She glanced at the piece of paper, noting the address. Hollis, Queens. Fifteen maybe twenty minutes away. She could easily make it there and back before the close of business. No she couldn't do it alone. What if this guy was some kind of a sociopath? She'd call Noah. He deserved to be filled in.

Digging through her purse, Eden located the business card Noah had given her. She punched in the number before she could change her mind.

Hello…” The sound of his gravelly voice made her toes curl. Around her the world wobbled on a none-too-steady axis.

“Hello,” Noah repeated.

“Noah?”

“Eden?” He made her name sound special. She wondered if the longing in his voice was purely her imagination. “How are you?”

“Fine. Actually better than fine.”

“And your mother?”

Almost fully recovered.”

Next she told him about her stroke of good fortune and how she'd managed to get Kilpatrick's address.

“That's wonderful, hon. Soon as I'm through with this press conference I'll hop the next shuttle. Stay put, and don't do a thing until I get there.”

Eden calculated rapidly. Three hours was a long time to sit idle and wait. Even if Noah rushed through the interview, grew wings and literally flew, he'd never make it to New York before nightfall. Not that she couldn't keep busy. Her in-box was full to overflowing, and she'd been playing catch-up ever since she got back. Was Kilpatrick listed in the phone book, or was the number disconnected? That information she could at least find out on her own.

Eden dialed 411 just as Lori walked in. Acknowledging her friend with a nod, she responded to the automated voice on the line. “Hollis. Last name's Kilpatrick, first Aaron. Six twenty-one Lenox Avenue.”

After a considerable hold, a live operator took over. “Sorry the number's unlisted.”

“Are you sure, operator?”

Receiving confirmation, she slammed the phone down and railed at Lori. “Would you believe the guy's got an unlisted number?”

“Whoa. Who are we talking about?” Lori took the seat facing Eden.

Eden, realizing she wasn't making sense, began to explain. The phone rang. “I'll have to get that.” She tossed Lori an apologetic look.

“Hello.”

A TV blared in the background. “I hear you been looking for me,” a slurred voice said.

“Who's this?” The tone was strangely familiar though she couldn't quite place it.

Silence. The man cleared his throat, and after a while said, “You wanted me to call you about a job.”

Eden felt her pulse rate quicken. Hallelujah! The mountain had come to Mohammed. “Aaron Kilpatrick?”

“Depends on who's asking.”

“Eden Sommers. I spoke with your uncle, asked him to have you call. When can we get together?”

The volume of the TV almost drowned out her words. She could hear a newscaster about to introduce Noah and Vernon Bond, Pelican's president. She'd have to wrap this up quickly. She wanted to see that broadcast.

“This an interview or a definite job?” The same slurred voice quizzed.

“That depends on you, Aaron.”

Aaron grunted. “How much ya paying?”

Eden debated telling him. But what if he decided it was too little. She'd possibly blow her only opportunity to speak with him. “We can discuss the details when we get together. Meanwhile I'd like to ask you a few questions.”

“No questions unless they relate to the job.”

“But Aaron…”

“And we talk on my turf. Just you and me, babe. No one else. Plan on next Monday, seven o'clock sharp. I'll be in touch.”

She hung up and, forgetting about Lori, rushed from the room. She needed to find a TV—and fast.

A
small group
of flight attendants, pilots, and ramp agents huddled around the TV in the lounge. Spotting Eden, one of the flight crew vacated his seat, motioning her over. She smiled her thanks and sank onto the lumpy sofa.

On-screen, Noah and Vernon Bond made statements that were obviously prepared by public relations. Eden's eyes remained on Noah. No wonder he'd been labeled the NTSB stud of the year. The cameras loved him and played up his best features. His brilliant white smile, flashes of ivory against ebony, tugged at her heartstrings. What presence the man had. The flight attendant seated next to her fanned herself and sighed. Eden kept her eyes on the screen. Noah was a walking, talking cover model. Could he really be hers if she wanted him? He was hardly hers nor did she want him.
Liar!
She couldn't take her eyes off his impressive body. He was impeccably dressed in an expensive navy suit, burgundy tie and polished black shoes.

Tuning in to the conversations around her, she realized why women salivated just hearing his name.

“God, he's gorgeous,” the leggy blonde seated next to her said on a sigh.

“An understatement,” the flight attendant sitting catercorner to her inserted. “He's not exactly the kind of man you'd throw out of bed.”

Eden felt herself blushing. She could definitely confirm what they'd said.

The chattering ceased as everyone focused on Vernon Bond's words.

Eden caught the tail end of his sentence. “…Now we have reason to believe that foul play may have been a contributing cause of Flight 757…”

Pandemonium broke out as everyone began talking at once.

M
uch to the
chagrin of the man behind him, Noah slowed down. “Do I make a right or a left here?” He was driving Eden's Jeep.

Eden peered at the map as the horn behind them blasted. “Right, I think. Sorry I don't have GPS.”

On their way to the city, they'd decided to detour and doubled back to Hollis. Noah gestured for the driver to go by. “Sorry, buddy.”

“Read that address to me again,” Noah said.

Straightening out the crumpled piece of paper, Eden complied. “Six twenty-one Lenox.”

“Road or avenue.”

“Avenue.”

They continued on, Eden supplying instructions whenever she was asked. As they continued on, one block seemed shabbier than the other.

“Noah, do you think it's a good idea to keep going? I mean it's starting to get dark, and this doesn't look like the safest place,” Eden said.

He squeezed her shoulder. “Agreed, but we need to scope out the neighborhood. No way am I allowing you to meet this guy alone after seeing this hell hole.” He gestured to the area around him. “When are you supposed to meet him?”

“Next Monday?”

“Great. I'll take the day off and fly up. Better yet, I'll drive up on Friday and spend the whole weekend.”

“Noah, you can't. Aaron Kilpatrick's not going to talk to me if you're present.” Even as she tried to dissuade him, the thought of having him to herself for the whole weekend was too tempting. Still, what would be the point of encouraging him? Their relationship was headed nowhere. Even if she were prepared to forgive and forget, a long-distance romance came with its own set of problems.

Noah's hand left the wheel, covering hers. “Who said anything about being visible? Present doesn't mean visible.” The smile he threw her made her body tingle.

“Hey, Noah, slow down. You just missed it. Lenox is right back there.”

After looking into the rearview mirror, Noah reversed the car. He made a quick right, and they turned down the block. Littered with garbage and rusted cars, people talked in groups, taking advantage of the warm evening. Some sat on broken chairs having hair braided. Others were on stoops looking vacantly out at passing traffic. An even more depressing sight were four men slouched under the streetlight drinking from brown paper bags while a group of teenagers on skates circled them.

“Nice neighborhood. Can you see the numbers?”

“If you'd slow down I could.”

Noah stomped on the brake. The men under the streetlight eyed him warily. “Probably think I'm a cop,” he said to Eden.

“Wouldn't you. We're acting suspiciously, and my Jeep sticks out like a sore thumb. We just passed four fifty. I'd say we need to go several more blocks. Kilpatrick's is an odd number, so it will be on the other side of the street.”

“Smart girl.” Noah patted her head as if she was Kahlua.

They continued up the road. The neighborhood appeared even bleaker now. A sour smell of rotting garbage permeated the air. “Pugh!” Eden said, holding her nose. “Turn up the air conditioning.”

Noah quickly hastened to do her bidding. In the twilight, broken streetlights looked like emaciated arms, reaching out for help. The tiny houses they'd passed previously were now replaced by four-story brownstones. As they stopped to read the numbers, an occasional torn curtain shifted.

“You may have gone too far,” Eden said, spotting a misshapen mailbox with the number 656 in script.