Wings in the Dark (4 page)

“Do you love writing as much as being a detective in New York?”

The answer twirled slowly in my mind, but Laura needed reassuring. “Of course I do.”

She laid her head against my shoulder. “I've loved you since high school, but for the longest time I thought we might never get married. Now that we are, I don't want to lose you.”

Lose me?
What was she talking about? Where was my pal Gino when I needed him to explain women. “Why would…”

“The past couple of years you've put your life on the line more than once.”

I thought back to Mickey's murder and the undercover work Laura had done for the government agent who worked for Joe Kennedy, Landon Stoddard. “So did you.”

When the song ended, I led her back to the table. “Are you okay?”

“Of course.”

I pulled the chair out for her, and she sat gracefully. A waiter arrived, mumbled something French, and opened a bottle of champagne with flair, like someone working an audience. He popped the cork, poured half a glass, and handed it to me.

Champagne was merely booze with bubbles, but I nodded, and he filled Laura's glass.

I held up the glass. “What shall we drink to?”

“Your preposition is dangling.”

“You should've mentioned that on the dance floor. I hate when my fly's open in public.”

She laughed, the tears put away. “Let's drink to a quiet and peaceful rest of our honeymoon.”

We clinked glasses and sipped the champagne.

The maître d' hurried over, as excited as a man could get—okay, not that excited. “How is everything, Miss Wilson?”

“Delightful, isn't it, darling.”

The man's infatuation with Laura was getting under my skin, though I understood his interest. After all, I was infatuated too. “Wonderful.”

“Splendid.” He nodded as if noticing me for the first time. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

Laura chuckled as he walked away. “I'm sorry, darling. First the girl on the beach and now the maître d'. It can't be easy for you to deal with.”

“It's a reflection of your success.” I was still trying to get used to other men's interest. It seemed more of a struggle now we were married.

The maître d' returned, carrying a phone with a long cord. He set the phone on the table and handed Laura the receiver. “Call for you, Miss Wilson.”

She covered the receiver. “Who knows we're here?”

“Freddy. He's probably wondering if we've read his screenplay yet.”

Laura spoke into the phone. “Laura Wilson.”

Her eyes furrowed as she listened. “Of course. We'll be right there.”

She hung up and rose from her chair. Who knew we were at the Mambo Club?

“Who was it?”

“Amelia Earhart.”

The maître d's eyes widened.

Laura grabbed her purse. “Amelia needs our help.”

Amelia Earhart needs our help.
I never expected to hear those words, but the concern on Laura's face told me I'd heard right.

I handed the valet our ticket and tipped him. Wheeler Field was twenty miles north of the city in the center of the island. I drove away from the Mambo Club, remembering the first time I'd met the famous aviatrix. Laura introduced me to her at the Mines Field airport in Los Angeles. She looked more like Charles Lindbergh than Lindbergh, thin, short bobbed hair, sincere smile with a slight gap in her teeth, and gray piercing eyes.

During the two years I spent sulking in Florida, Laura and Amelia met backstage at one of Laura's Broadway plays. The two hit it off and kept in touch.

Skilled, brave, and charismatic, Amelia Earhart didn't become the most famous and popular woman in America until she met George Putnam, a guy I first encountered when I was a Pinkerton and a struggling writer; someone I managed to tolerate.

Putnam was a former book publisher, author, adventurer, and explorer of some note. George and Amelia met when he selected her for a chance to become the first woman to fly across the Atlantic. She accomplished the feat as a passenger, but Putnam, the master manipulator, courted the media and steered Amelia's career with well-timed precision.

I held out hope that the help Amelia referred to was our opinion on whether she should go ahead with her dangerous flight across the Pacific. “How can we help?”

“Amelia didn't want to say over the phone.” Laura's forehead wrinkled as if we'd been summoned to a hospital after a close friend had been in an accident. “But she asked to make sure I brought you.”

I didn't like the sound of that. “Me?”

I had no idea what we were about to walk into, but why would Amelia ask Laura to bring me? If she needed my background as a detective, I might be walking into a real pickle.

The last time I “helped” on an investigation, the local cops fingered me as the prime suspect in a Hollywood murder. I promised Laura I'd never get involved in police business again. “What else did she say?”

Laura shook her head. “It wasn't so much what she said, but the way she said it.”

“And how's that?”

“She sounded worried, frightened almost. Jake, we're talking about Amelia Earhart. Nothing scares her.” Laura squeezed my arm. “You don't think something's happened to her husband?”

I turned onto the road toward Wheeler Field. “We'll know soon enough, sweetheart.”

I wanted to take Laura's mind off Amelia's phone call. “I never liked him.”

“Who?”

“George Putnam.”

“Oh, great. If anything's wrong with George, don't mention that to the cops.” Laura studied my face. “I admire George for what he's done for Amelia's career. He's the perfect promoter. He needs her to write books about her adventures and make him even richer, and Amelia needs him to promote her next venture.”

“She doesn't need him.”

“Oh, no? Think Amelia's the best female pilot in the world? Most people assume that, but until a couple of years ago, she was still taking flying lessons. When she became the first woman to cross the Atlantic, she was a passenger while two men split the piloting duties, yet people in Europe and back home greeted her as the hero, just like Lindbergh. She toured the country speaking and earning more dough than she'd ever made. That was George's doing.”

At a traffic light, she pulled a makeup case from her purse and powdered her nose. “Don't get me wrong. He doesn't call all the shots. Amelia's a great match for George, fearless and determined. She created her own successful line of clothes. She sold the idea for the
Wings in the Dark
movie to Paramount. He supports Amelia's career, much like you do mine. You're always there for me, attending Hollywood parties with snobbish actors and holding your tongue when fans gush over my latest film. I know these things bother you, but you do them for me.”

I still didn't like the guy. “Sounds like more of a manager than a husband.”

She snapped the case closed. “We're childhood sweethearts whose love stood the test of time. Their marriage is based on business, but it works.”

Laura was angry I didn't see George's positive qualities, but I preferred my wife irritated with me rather than consumed with worry about Amelia.

My sense of dread increased the closer we got to the airfield. I'd not only promised Laura I wouldn't get involved in another homicide investigation. I'd made the same promise to myself. My detective days were right where I wanted them: behind me.

We drove through the gate, where the guard checked our names on a list and waved us through. Laura regained her composure and appeared ready to handle whatever we were about to face. She even managed a smile. “You're as concerned about what we'll find as I am, aren't you? But you helped me talk my way out of my dread. Did I ever tell you how wonderful you are?”

“Not that I recall.”

Laura laughed and kissed my cheek. “Amelia and I do have something in common. She turned down George's marriage proposals on six separate occasions. I only turned you down five times.”

We climbed out of the Oldsmobile, looking like we'd taken a wrong turn, me in my tux and Laura in her silver gown. We followed a sandy path to the hangar housing Amelia's plane, the Lockheed Vega. A Cadillac sedan and two Honolulu PD patrol cars sat near the entrance.

My gut twisted into a knot. This was more than trouble. I recognized a crime scene when I saw one.

One cop, tall and stout and bored-looking, stood beside a dark Cadillac sedan, smoking a cigarette while a young officer guarded the entrance.

Policemen didn't have it so easy. The job didn't pay well and police departments wanted guys with patience, integrity, and guts. Twelve million people were out of jobs in the country. But even in Hawaii, few wanted to be cops.

The hangar's open door revealed her large plane and a handful of people. I spotted Amelia right away. In trousers and a brown leather jacket, she paced, running a hand through her familiar cropped hair. Her husband stood at a desk near the entrance, talking on the phone.

We drew close enough to see a man facedown on the floor beside Amelia's plane, a pool of blood spreading from his head.

A guard who didn't look old enough to shave held up one hand and stopped us at the entrance. “That's far enough, folks.”

He was young, but old enough to make eyes at Laura. I gave him a break in case he was a fan of sequins. I explained that we were friends of Amelia.

The kid looked apologetic as he told us his sergeant ordered him to keep everyone out.

Laura stared open-mouthed at the dead man on the floor. “Jake, you can't…we can't…get involved in this.”

I wasn't going to argue. I wanted nothing more than to turn away and get back to the Mambo Club and the champagne we left chilling at our table. However, there was a dead body a few feet from Amelia Earhart's plane, and she'd asked for our help.

A part of me was still a gumshoe and wanted to learn why someone would murder a man right by Amelia's plane. “We won't, sweetheart, but we can't just take a powder. We have to talk to Amelia first.”

“Laura, Jake.” Amelia ran to the entrance and hugged Laura. She stepped back to admire Laura's gown. “I'm so sorry we disturbed what must have been a special night.”

She addressed the officer. “It's okay. They're friends of mine.”

The cop looked helplessly to his colleague guarding the black Cadillac, but the older cop turned away. The kid rubbed the back of his neck. “I…I guess it'd be all right.”

“It'll be fine,” I assured him, as if my opinion would carry any weight when it came to Honolulu PD procedures.

With obvious reluctance, he stepped aside.

A fresh coat of paint on the metal walls of the hangar couldn't hide the smell of oil, gasoline, and rubber. Tires were stacked along the back wall next to a half-dozen blue metal drums. Dwarfing everything was the single engine Vega Amelia had piloted across the Atlantic almost three years earlier.

In spite of Laura's hesitancy, the scene piqued my curiosity. I surveyed the interior like I used to when I was a gumshoe.

A silver-haired Hawaiian in a three-piece gray suit and matching fedora was clearly in charge. He wore the granite-jawed no-nonsense look of a lead detective. Near a door in the back of the hangar, he was talking to a mechanic, someone I first took to be a young man. A second glance told me the mechanic was a slender blonde in her mid-twenties, dressed in loose-fitting mechanics' coveralls and a baseball cap. Puffing on a cigarette, she was answering the detective's questions while studying the surface of the plane, no doubt checking to see if it was damaged by gunfire, just like a meticulous mechanic would.

The detective seemed like a pro, hardly the kind who'd welcome Laura and me to his crime scene.

Putnam hung up the phone and pumped my hand. “Thanks for coming, Jake. Laura.”

He hadn't changed much. He was the grandson of George Palmer Putnam, founder of the prominent publishing company. G. P. Putnam's Sons became one of the major rivals of my publisher, Empire Press. Although the man had been polite, he always seemed to find a way to get a dig in about my publisher, saving his best zingers for my editor, Mildred. Normally, I would have set him straight when we first met, but I didn't want to cause any problems between Laura and Amelia.

Putnam had advanced beyond publishing. He was an author and explorer. He rubbed shoulders with Lindbergh and the explorer Richard Byrd, but Amelia was his real prize. He was ten years older than she was, sophisticated, dapper, and loaded. A man who always seemed to be in charge.

He kissed Laura's cheek. “You look fabulous. I'm sorry to bother you two on your honeymoon, but with Jake in town, I didn't know who else to call that I could trust.”

He trusted me? I nodded toward the body. “What happened?”

Amelia glanced at the dead man. “We're…I'm not certain. I was in the cockpit, going over a postflight checklist. I dozed off, something I've learned to do on really long flights. I woke up when I heard two loud pops, then another. By the time I climbed out, whoever shot him was gone. George came in seconds later. When we realized he was dead, we phoned the police. After they arrived, George called your hotel and found out you'd gone to a club.”

“When you heard the loud pops, did you think they were gunshots?”

“Of course I did.”

“Then why didn't you stay in the cockpit?”

Amelia let out a sigh. “I was afraid someone shot George.”

The frown on Laura's face told me she didn't like the tone of my questions, but the cops would ask Amelia the same things. “Of course. Did you see anyone leaving the hangar or hear anyone drive away?”

Amelia shook her head. “Nothing.”

Putnam led me away from the two women and lowered his voice. “I didn't like the attitude of the homicide detective, the way he questioned Amelia. They're treating her like a suspect. You can imagine what'll happen if the papers get ahold of this.”

“They will. You know that more than I do.”

He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I think I can keep a lid on this for a few days.”

“A few hours, maybe.”

“You're right.”

The press wasn't the real problem for Putnam or Amelia. A man's body found in a hangar alone with Amelia might not be enough to make her a suspect, but it would arouse the suspicion of any detective. Putnam was the type few people had the guts to say no to, but my promise to Laura came first. “You don't need me. You need a lawyer.”

“I need someone experienced and discreet to find out why an important Hawaiian businessman was murdered next to Amelia's plane, who did it, and why, without drawing much attention.”

Did he want coffee with that order?

“Jake, if we were in the States, I'd have other options, but you're my only hope.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his damp brow.

I was in a real jam. Amelia Earhart was a legendary pilot and the most famous woman in the world. Her accomplishments were symbols of hope in a country struggling for its survival. And I had more than patriotic concerns. Putnam was a powerful man in the publishing industry. If I turned him down, there would be consequences.

I hadn't been a licensed dick in years, though Laura and I had both become involved in criminal investigations—but things were different now. We were married and ahead of us was the life together we'd always wanted. “Maybe I can make some calls and find a detective who knows this city better than I do.”

“I've been making calls, damn it!” He regained his composure. “You used to be a detective. I'd like you to dig into this. You might not have noticed”—he glanced toward Amelia—“but the police think Amelia might have shot him.”

“Mr. Putnam…”

“George.”

George? We weren't friends, and I wouldn't let him pretend we were. I doubted reason would work with a man whose wife was a suspect, but I had to try. “Laura's an actress and I'm a writer. I can take a look at the body and give my observations, but I can't get involved in investigating the murder.”

The man's eyes never left mine. “That's your final answer?”

“It is.”

“Then beat it. I have more calls to make.” He headed for the desk and picked up the phone.

I rejoined Laura and Amelia and took another look at the crime scene. The dead man lay facedown. His arms were pointing toward the hangar opening, as if he'd been shot running away from the plane. There were two visible wounds, one in the center of his back and a bloody mass of hair and bone on the side of his head, where a pool of blood had formed on the concrete floor. The only obvious clue was the toe of a footprint in the blood beside the man's head.