In Plane Sight (11 page)

Though it was the middle of the night when they arrived, the station was buzzing with activity. Officers from all shifts were crowded into the room, shuffling papers, drinking coffee, and discussing the recent incidents at the airport. A tired-looking NTSB official glared suspiciously at the teens as they entered the room.

The brothers and Jamal spent the next three hours detailing everything that had gone on during the previous day and a half. They stuck to the facts, leaving out any speculation about how the pieces of this strange puzzle might fit together. They went over the theft of Hawkins Air's new plane, the break-in at the office, the hijacking of Brooks's custom sky jumper, the discovery of the sunken plane, the chase through the forest, and finally, the fight in the control tower.

In the end the police and detectives looked just as puzzled as the Hardys and Jamal felt. The authorities, however, didn't admit that they had no more idea of what was going on than the boys did.

The police talked about holding the Hardys on “suspicion.” They seemed to believe that the brothers must be mixed up in the case somehow, despite Jamal's legitimate business reason for being at the airport.

The brothers used one of their permitted phone calls to talk to their father. Fenton Hardy contacted Con Riley, the brothers' friend in the Bayport Police Department, and Riley vouched for them. This seemed to placate the Scottsville police, though the safety board agent still seemed unconvinced.

Fenton Hardy seemed concerned about his sons and made them promise—for the peace of mind of their mother and their aunt Gertrude—to keep their noses clean with the police. The brothers declined Mr. Hardy's offer of assistance, though they did ask him to get in touch with Jamal's father; Jamal had still not been able to get through. Fenton Hardy promised to try, and the phone call ended with the hint that he'd be bringing them home himself if he heard any more reports of skydiving without a parachute. The brothers promised to stay out of trouble.

Frank and Joe hung up the phone and exchanged looks of concern. Fenton Hardy, renowned detective, was not about to let them stay at the air show if they distressed their mother or aunt any further.

“We'll have to keep out of the public eye from now on,” Frank said.

“That would be fine with me as well,” said the Scottsville chief of police, a burly middle-aged man with a white mustache. “Now if you boys won't be needing my station phones anymore, maybe my men and I can get back to solving these crimes.”

“Did you have any luck finding out about that sunken plane?” Joe asked.

“If we had any luck,” said the NTSB man, poking his thin nose into the conversation, “it wouldn't be any concern of yours.”

“You boys stay out of this from now on, understand?” the chief said.

The brothers nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“It's nearly dawn,” the chief said. “Go back to the airport, and get some sleep. You can go too, Hawkins.”

“Thanks,” Jamal said, rousing himself from a chair. None of the boys had gotten any sleep that night.

Clevon Brooks had walked into the station earlier and spent the last fifteen minutes speaking to a patrol officer about the disappearance of his plane. He didn't seem too pleased with what the officer was telling him. As the brothers and Jamal headed for the door, Brooks's conversation became louder.

“We're doing all we can, Mr. Brooks,” the officer said.

“Well, it's not enough!” Brooks complained. “If I don't get that plane back before the end of this show, my business is going right down the tubes!”

“Honestly, Mr. Brooks,” the NTSB investigator said, “everyone here is dedicated to recovering your plane, and the Hawkins plane, as quickly as possible.”

Brooks looked around the crowded station, pure frustration on his face.

“We'll call you just as soon as we find anything,” the chief of police said.

“If you find anything
before
my creditors disconnect my phone, you mean,” Brooks said. He turned and left the police station. The Hardys and Jamal followed him out.

“Actually, Mr. Brooks, there may be something more you can do,” Joe said.

“We're looking into the disappearance of the Hawkins plane,” Frank added, “and we're sure the two thefts are connected to a plane we found sunken beneath the ice in Lake Kendall.”

“It looked like another Sullivan Brothers custom job,” Joe said. “The numbers on its tail were S-T-eight-seven-eight. You've been working with planes a long time. Is there anything you know about that particular Sullivan custom job?”

Brooks's eyes grew wide. “You found Sullivan custom eight-seven-eight?” he asked incredulously. “You're pulling my leg, right?”

The brothers and Jamal shook their heads earnestly.

“I thought everyone in the business knew that story,” Brooks said. “Eight-seven-eight was stolen by Carl Denny. He was part of a gang that stole three million dollars' worth of rare coins from a museum in Newport, Rhode Island. The rest of the gang got caught and thrown in prison for five years, but Denny managed to slip away with the money.

“The police caught up with him later. They
found out he was working in the Sullivan Brothers Air Customizing shop in Albany. But Denny, who was calling himself Dennis Carlson, found out they were on to him the same night the police planned to raid his place. The cops chased him to the Sullivan shop, a big hangar in a tiny airport west of the city.

“Before they could catch him, Denny hot-wired one of the planes in the shop. He drove the plane out of the big display window onto the runway and took off. No one has ever seen him—or the plane—again,” Brooks finished.

“What about the stolen coins?” Jamal asked.

“The police never found the money either,” Brooks replied.

“That's interesting,” Frank said, rubbing his head, “but I can't immediately see how that ties into the current thefts.”

“You boys look exhausted,” Brooks said. “Why don't I give you a lift to wherever you're staying?”

“We're in the campground by the airfield,” Joe said.

“Perfect,” Brooks replied. “I was going that way anyway. I've got something to discuss with Elise.”

“Great,” Frank said, “we'll probably think better after we've had some rest.”

The three friends piled into Brooks's rental car. By the time the sun rose, they were back at the campground. They crawled into their sleeping bags without a complaint about the cold, cramped conditions
and slept through the rest of the morning. They didn't even notice the hustle and bustle of the Fly By & Buy air show taking place on the runway beside the campground.

They finally got up in the afternoon, showered and shaved, and put on warm clothes and jackets. Then they hauled themselves over to the cafeteria for a very late brunch.

“Well, if it's not the prodigal troublemakers,” Jack Meeker declared as they entered the room. He and a number of other attendees, including Rock Grissom, Tony Manetti, and—surprisingly—Amy Chow all were eating. “Come on in, boys,” Meeker continued, “rustle yourselves some grub. Things have been downright boring around here without you.” He smirked at Frank and Joe.

“Ignore him,” Jamal said. They bought some burgers and onion rings and found a table as far away from Meeker as they could manage. They hung their jackets on the backs of their chairs and sat down to eat.

As they did, Amy stopped by the table. “Hey, by the way, thanks for saving my life,” she said.

“All part of the service, ma'am,” Joe said, pretending to tip an invisible cap to her.

“I'm surprised you're up and around so quickly,” Frank said.

“When you pay for the best safety systems in the aircraft business,” Amy replied, “you expect results.
Besides, I've got to find myself a new plane.”

“What caused the crash?” Jamal asked.

“Multiple systems failed,” Amy said. “Fuel line and avionics. I don't know how it happened, but I'm lucky to be walking. I had the plane checked before the show too. Guess I'll do my own checking from now on.”

“Probably a good idea,” Frank said.

“I've gotta run,” she said. “I want to check out a plane demonstration. See ya. Thanks again.”

“Bye,” said the three boys.

“Yeah?” said a loud voice from the other side of the room. “Well, I don't think much of your business tactics either.” It was Grissom, and he'd apparently been arguing with Meeker. The aging man got up from the table, slung his jacket over one shoulder, and stalked across the room.

He turned back toward Meeker halfway to the door and said, “This isn't over, hotshot.” He kept walking as he talked, oblivious of where he was going.

Jamal started to move toward the two men, anticipating a fight, but he was too late. Grissom crashed into him at nearly full speed. The two of them tumbled to the floor, their jackets skidding across the faded linoleum.

Grissom turned angrily and glared at Jamal, “You want a piece of me too?” he asked, breathing into Jamal's face.

13 The Payoff

Joe and Frank rose to their feet. They crossed the room quickly and helped up their friend.

“Three against one, eh?” Grissom said. “I've faced worse odds.” He assumed a defensive boxing position.

“This is just a misunderstanding,” Frank said.

“Then why'd your friend trip me?” Grissom asked.

“Trip you?” Joe said angrily. “You weren't looking where you were going and ran right into him.”

“Hey,” Jamal said, “it's cool. It was just a mistake. You and I have no problem, Rock. Anyone who's having trouble with Meeker is a friend of mine.” He leaned down and picked up his leather aviator's jacket off the floor.

Grissom grabbed his own jacket and threw it defiantly over his shoulder. “Well, just stay out of my way from now on,” he said, pointing angrily at the teens. He turned quickly and stalked out the door.

“What did
he
have for lunch?” Joe said.

They finished eating and headed for the door. As they stepped outside and put on their coats, Jamal looked confused.

“What is it?” Frank asked.

“Something's in my pocket,” Jamal said, pulling out a piece of crumpled paper. There were three things in the small wad: a newspaper obituary and photo, another news article, and a handwritten note in block letters. They were clipped together.

Frank peeked over Jamal's shoulder at the note. “‘I have the photo. I will take it to the cops if you don't pay me what I want. Meet me tonight—you know where—or I will blow your whole scheme wide open,'” he read out loud, straight off the handwritten paper. “Jamal, do you know what this is about?”

“I've never seen any of these before,” Jamal said, handing the newspaper clippings to his friends so the Hardys could examine them.

“This article is about the Carl Denny gang and the coin theft,” Joe said. “It has a caption above the article, but the photo is missing. ‘Captured: Beth Denny, Pablo Salvatore, John Michaelson, and Jack
Antonio. Gang leader Carl Denny, far right, remains at large.'”

“The obituary is for someone named Dee Jones,” Frank said. “He was a machinist who died after a prolonged bout with cancer six months ago. It says his estranged wife was with him when he died. No children, apparently. I don't see any connection here to the gang, though.”

“Hey, guys,” Jamal said, “I don't think this is my jacket.”

“What?” said Frank and Joe.

“It's not mine,” Jamal said. “It
looks
like mine, but it's a bit more beat up.”

“It must be Grissom's!” Joe said. “Your jackets must have gotten mixed up when he crashed into you.”

“That makes sense,” Jamal said. “I noticed before that his jacket and mine were practically the same.”

“Put the papers back in the pocket,” Frank said, looking past his friend. “Grissom's coming back.” He and Joe handed the articles back to Jamal, who reclipped them to the note and stuffed the bundle into the jacket.

Grissom stalked toward them like an angry tiger. “Hey!” he called. “What did you do with my jacket?”

“What do you mean?” Jamal asked nonchalantly.

“I mean this isn't my jacket,” Grissom said, taking the jacket off his shoulder and throwing it on the
ground. He pointed at Jamal. “That's my jacket!”

“Really?” Frank said.

“I hadn't noticed,” Jamal told Grissom.

“Give it to me!” Grissom snapped. “You didn't rifle through my pockets, did you?”

“Why would I go through your pockets?” Jamal said, acting slightly annoyed. “I told you, I didn't even notice I had the wrong jacket.”

“If you'd been watching where you were going,” Joe said, “this mixup would never have happened.”

Grissom pulled a wallet from the jacket's pocket and flipped through it. “Well,” he said, “everything
seems
to be here.” He stuffed his wallet back into his jacket pocket, and turned to Frank. “Hey—just remember, keep away from my plane. I know you and your friends are mixed up in this mess somehow.”

“You've been flying too high without an oxygen mask,” Frank said, rolling his eyes.

“Just stay out of my way,” Grissom said, stalking away.

“Well,” Joe muttered as Grissom walked out of earshot, “if he meant the note for one of us, he just passed up the perfect chance to deliver it.”

“So who did he intend it for?” Frank wondered. “He was arguing with Meeker in the cafeteria before.”

“Amy and Manetti were there when we came in
too,” Jamal noted. “Though I've got to choose Meeker as a suspect. He's caused enough trouble in my life.”

“The note could be intended for someone who wasn't in the commissary,” Joe said. “It was still in his pocket, after all.”